


i’ll pray at your feet (as long as you let me)

by FaultyParagon



Series: RWBY AUs [19]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Alternate Universe - Farm/Ranch, Bird Qrow Branwen, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Clover Ebi-centric, Clover just needs a hug, Crow Qrow Branwen, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Fairgame, Fluff and Angst, Former Military Clover Ebi, God Qrow Branwen, Gods, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Lucky Charms, M/M, Romance, Slow Burn, Tragedy but Not Really, Uncle Clover Ebi, Worship, although it doesn't last, and maybe a good harvest of potatoes, fair game, something that crows won't demolish, stop destroying Clover's fields and get back to your wobbly shrine Qrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:47:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 48,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25909846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaultyParagon/pseuds/FaultyParagon
Summary: Clover moves to Anima to take over his late grandfather’s farm. He expects to receive a lot of land, some weak harvests, and perhaps meet someone with whom he can settle down from the nearby town. What he gets is so much more.-aka Qrow is a god and Clover shall worship at his feet no matter how much Qrow wants a better life for Clover. Domestic Family-focused Fair Game, AU.
Relationships: Clover Ebi & Lie Ren & Nora Valkyrie, Harriet Bree & Clover Ebi, Lie Ren & Nora Valkyrie, Lie Ren/Nora Valkyrie, Qrow Branwen & Clover Ebi, Qrow Branwen & Lie Ren & Nora Valkyrie, Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Series: RWBY AUs [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690948
Comments: 246
Kudos: 154





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Here's another fic that's been spinning around my head for weeks. Let me know what you think!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Podfic for this chapter available here:
> 
> [Part 1](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/629750340686954496/podfic-for-chapter-1-part-1-of-ill-pray-at-your) \- [Part 2](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com/post/629750474208378880/podfic-for-chapter-1-part-2-of-ill-pray-at-your)

The sun beating down upon his brow is still just as foreign as it had been two days ago upon his first arrival to this isolated building, and yet, Clover finds that he no longer minds the heat. The hat certainly helps, though.

He squints against the light shining with reckless abandon, skirting freshly-painted and washed walls with care, desperate to stay in the shade for just a moment longer. He does not know how well he has done, nor how long this clean, immaculate wall will last; with the rain and snow and sun all in one location, he feels more out of place than ever before. This land is nothing like Solitas, nothing like Mantle and its roaring hearths and deep mines; nothing like Atlas, the city floating above, and its icy perfection. He does not know the four seasons. The thought of experiencing all of them alone frightens him.

Still, he is more than happy to give it a try. There is not much he remembers of the late owner of this farm. What he does remember is sweet, a gnarled hand ruffling his hair, carving wood with a whittling knife while Clover bounces upon a bony knee. Those carvings were lovely, small and quaint with no real value aside from the memories. Clover has kept every single whittled piece his grandfather had ever gifted him anyways.

The idea of being completely on his own is still a little mindboggling. As he glances down the country road, the cracking pavement stretching on for miles into the distance in the flat countryside, that glimmer of fear begins to fester within his heart. The flat land is only broken up by one communications tower, the hint of modernity unsettlingly obvious, unnatural, in the otherwise rural landscape.

He does not know how to farm; he was raised to fight, to battle. That has all changed in recent weeks, however; the mere thought of combat sends a spark of pain up his spine from his left knee, though. For the nth time, he wonders why he did not accept the offer to receive a prosthetic. Those thoughts are quickly shoved away nonetheless, for he does not know what answers await him, nor does he know if he is strong enough to face the truth.

There is too much hurt still within him to face the truth. Not here. Not all alone.

But growing things, cultivating the earth and tilling the soil and being a creator rather than a destroyer- that idea is enticing, and with the farm now in his possession, he is up to the task. He has learned his lesson and sports his grandfather’s old straw hat; no more shall he allow this sun, so much more powerful here than in Atlas, to burn his skin. He is ready to dig and to grow and to sustain a peaceful life for himself, for the Grimm do not come near this place, and for that, he is grateful.

He shuffles over to the back of the house. Right against the back of his new home is a small flower bed, one which Clover has vague plans of- the back of the house receives the most sunlight, and he can imagine tall stalks of sunflowers chasing the sun’s rays. Perhaps he shall plant roses- his mother loves roses, although they rarely grow upon Solitas. He knows that daffodils are pretty, too, although he has only seen them in photographs. He would like to cultivate some himself.

Beyond the flower bed is the private vegetable patch. Clover counts his blessings each time he looks upon it, for his grandfather has left him detailed instructions on everything he could ever need to know about growing his own sustenance. He is not worried about surviving the winter. He shall find a way to thrive, as long as he follows orders. He is a military man- _was_ a military man- and he shall survive.

His eyes rise, looking beyond the small yard into the distance. On the west side, there are fields that all now sit in Clover’s name, but they are overrun with weeds and uninvited guests. Tools to fix that are in the small shed beside the vegetable garden in case he should like to restore this farm to a functioning property, but Clover does not wish to prosper; he simply wants to _live,_ so he shall let those fields go, shall allow the birds and snakes and mice and hares to build their nests and burrows, to frolic in those fields as they were always meant to do.

On the east side of his lands, however, is the forest. The trees confuse him, for he knows in his grandfather’s youth that the man could have easily torn it all down to create more land. However, as he looks upon the maze-like trees, he can tell; the trunks are thick, gnarled roots growing deep into the ground, the canopy above dense with intertwining branches and leaves and _life._ These trees are too old now. Clover is not meant to touch those trees.

He shall, however, explore them. There is something alluring about the forest which he cannot name, but he finds his footsteps wanting to veer into the dense foliage every time his green eyes land upon even greener flora; thus far, he has been successful in resisting that urge, but he has no main mission for the day as he has had in the past few days while fixing up the house. Now, he is free to explore.

For a moment, he pauses before stepping inside. Glancing up at the sky, he lets out a tiny sigh, a rueful smile crossing his lips; the motion stings with taut, burnt skin upon the apples of his freckled cheeks, but he does not mind. _Brothers above, what have I gotten myself into?_

Just as quickly, he snorts, shaking his head and shoving away the immediate sadness which ensues. _They are not listening,_ he reminds himself. _It’s not as if there’s even a large temple nearby where I can worship or offer prayer. They have better things to do than look out for me._

His leg aches. He ignores it.

As he walks into the treeline, however, he is immediately greeted by a strange sight; a clearing, just a few metres in, formerly blocked from view thanks to the thick line of trunks surrounding it, sits just a few long paces away from his shed. He frowns, stepping forward, running callused fingertips upon the tall, wizened trunks as he approaches the back of the clearing.

There is a pedestal here. It is empty, but the stone is raised, too flat and smooth and precise to be natural. It is almost as if it could house a small shrine.

… _there’s nowhere else to offer worship nearby._

He bites his lip furtively. He does not want to believe in the gods any longer, not after they have proved that they can so callously abandon loyal believers such as he in their greatest times of strife. However, a lifetime of faith is not easily forgotten, and soon, he is carrying wood from inside his home’s foyer to build a small shrine atop this raised outcropping. At his waist is his tool belt; he carries a bag of nails and his hammer, a saw to cut off the excess, and begins to build.

The toil is tiring. He does not mind, quietly working with the occasional whistled tune to break the vague silence. He grimaces as he hears birds fly off with every strike of his hammer. He does not wish to frighten them, but there is little he can do.

At last, the shrine is complete. With a slanted roof, it is a simple, four-poster structure that sits upon a foundation so weak any errant wind could have knocked it over if the trees had not protected the pristine stillness of the clearing. Clover laughs at his own handiwork, but he does not feel ashamed of his day’s efforts, for he does not yet know how to build. Perhaps when he is more experienced, he shall fix it up. The heart is what matters for a first attempt, and heart, he has plenty.

With that in mind, he goes back to the main house, returning to the makeshift, wobbly shrine with a small plate of fruit and bread. Kneeling before it, he presses a hand to his heart and closes his eyes. “It is not very good, but I hope you shall like this shrine,” he says. For a moment, he wonders whether he should dedicate this place to the Great Brothers; he quickly rescinds that thought, however. There are many gods. The Brothers are not the only ones in need of worship, right?

He waits for one minute, and then, another. There are no signs of any deities bestowing blessings upon him; at least, he thinks that is the case. Either way, the sun is sinking further below the horizon, and through the leaves above, he can see the skies shifting from rosy oranges to violet-tinted magentas. He is weary. It is time to rest. So, he stands, stretching out a kink in his back and massaging his aching thigh, ready to turn in for the night.

However, before he leaves, a fluttering of leaves and the flapping of wings catches his eye. Turning to look at the shrine, he finds a large crow sitting upon the stone, pecking at the few berries which Clover has offered. It trills happily, swallowing them one by one, all the while keeping its shockingly-red eyes fixated upon Clover.

Clover smiles, holding out a hand to the bird. To his surprise, it hops towards him, quickly rubbing its head in Clover’s outstretched palm; Clover pulls his hand back in wonder only to reach out for more, for he has never actually touched a crow before, but the short feathers against his palm are light and fluffy and delightful. The crow, unfortunately, does not respond in kind, eating the rest of the food upon the pedestal out of his reach.

Clover sighs, sinking back with creaking knees upon his haunches. “Well, I guess it was worth a try,” he murmurs ruefully. “If you want to use it as a nest, that’s fine too, buddy. Just don’t eat stuff from my vegetable patch.”

“Do you think you can restrict me?”

Clover blinks, staring at the crow. Its beak is opened, but there is no way that the bird has spoken. “I haven’t eaten today,” Clover whispers to himself. “I’m hearing things. I need to go eat.”

The crow flaps its wings, but it is no normal motion; each movement sends gales of cutting against Clover’s face, whipping his hair out of his eyes, threatening to knock the hat off of him cleanly if his hand moves away from the top of the patched straw. The same voice thunders as the bird flies to the gabled rooftop, “Is this how you treat a god?”

 _Oh no._ Clover pauses as the wind dies down, blood freezing in his veins, pulling off his hat and holding it in his hands, feeling straw run coarsely against his fingertips. He does not see anything in front of him aside from the crow; nothing but the empty shrine, the woods echoing around him, promising no help nor safety from the speaker lurking in the plane between, its spirit in corvid form.

“I meant no disrespect,” he breathes, turning a sunburnt, freckled face upwards towards the canopy. “I apologize.”

“Why have you built this shrine?” the voice booms, too ethereal to even comprehend.

Shuddering at the intensity of it all, Clover shrinks for a moment. Then, he shakes his head, straightening his back, holding his chest up proudly. He was a soldier. He has fought greater demons- no god can scare him now. “It looked like a place of worship.”

“And you offer it to me?”

“If you wish.” The bird pauses, tilted its head, staring at Clover with such ferocity he wants to flee. He stands his ground. “Everyone deserves a home. Even gods.”

“…I see your truth.” The voice is different now, softer; it is gruff and coarse and deep, the voice of a man who has seen too much and loved too little; the voice of a man who knows the fleeting touch of happiness and the bittersweet taste of a pyrrhic victory. “…Thank you. What is your name?”

“Clover.”

“A good luck charm.” The crow seems to laugh as it caws. The voice adds, “I shall remember that.”

And that is that. Suddenly, the world is too bright to comprehend, and he shuts his eyes reflexively. A gentle caress of wind upon Clover’s cheeks is all that remains of the booming voice, tenderly soothing the sunburns from which he has foolishly suffered; for a moment, he closes his eyes, visualizing the red sunspots behind his eyes turning into crimson irises set in pale skin, the shadow of trees turning into dark hair, the wind nothing but the cooling touch of soft fingers upon his face, filling him with a sense of peace he has not felt for a long, long time.

The moment the wind dies down and the light disappears, the burns no longer sting, the bird is gone, and Clover’s heart is left warm, standing before his makeshift shrine for a kind, gentle god.


	2. Chapter 2

“Why do you bring me offerings, child? I cannot offer you anything.”

For a moment, his heart stops. Clover has not heard this voice for days- he had honestly thought his memory of building the shrine to have been a dream, up until the point he had visited the forest the next day, only to see a waiting crow and an empty bowl, begging to be refilled.

After that initial shock had passed, he has prayed each day to the shrine, asking for little things- the ache in his leg to cease, perhaps, or the family of squirrels who seemed intent on digging up his seeds to relocate peacefully- but with the ongoing silence, he had begun to think that it was no longer worth it, his sunburn delirium simply causing him to hear things.

Thus, to have a verbal response at last fills him with such inexplicable joy that he wants to melt. The timbre of the voice is just as powerful as he remembers, smothering his senses, tuning out the rest of the world and encasing Clover in a little bubble of warmth and care.

A wry smile tugs at his lips as he feels the breeze stroke his hair, carding through brown locks that have grown far too long. “I’m not a child,” he murmurs. “I suppose to a god I look like one, though.”

“Your heart is as tangled as a babe’s,” the voice thunders out into the clearing, the strength of it enough to frighten the birds and the rabbits and the insects away from the area, scurrying footsteps echoing faintly in the bushes. “You _are_ a child; you do not comprehend the length of immortality.”

As the god speaks, however, the wind never ceases, soothing Clover’s skin, brushing his hair. He instinctively recoils with the need to cut it shorter- his inspections officer back from his time as an officer cadet would weep, seeing how unkempt his hair has become- but Clover shall resist the temptation, for he knows that it is this deity whose winds run across his face, and the tenderness of it all makes him nostalgic. No one has touched his hair like this since he was young. Thus, he shall grow it longer, so that short strands are substantial in the hands of this god.

The deity repeats, “Answer my question, child. Why do you bring me offerings? I am no god of importance.” His voice carries a tinge of confusion within, a bewilderment that feels far too human to be resonating through the air with such intensity.

Clover shrugs, leaning against the raised stone pedestal, shifting around in his seat. He is grateful that the grasses are full and luscious within the clearing, with little patches of his namesake littering the greenery. It is comfortable to rest upon after a day of tilling his little vegetable garden, for his leg aches, and there is little to soothe him.

The feel of feathers against his fingertips certainly helps, however, and he is happy to do what he can in order to receive that brief contact every day. Even when the god had not spoken to him, Clover is happy with the routine he has established a week after moving into his grandfather’s old farm; at the end of each day, he totters his aching, sweat-soaked body up to the shrine with some of the best fruits of his labour.

Today, it is the first ripe blueberries from the bush he has finally managed to tame, the monstrous creature having overtaken the west wall of his house before his arrival. He adds to it a sprig of lavender from the fields, the gentle colour almost iridescent in the waning light filtering through the leaves above.

The god appreciates all of these things, swallowing the blueberries one by one, carrying off the lavender to what Clover can only assume is his nest. Faintly, Clover wonders whether the bird may one day eat out of his own palm. _What a foolish thought,_ he chastises himself. _The gods would never debase themselves as such._

He can dream, however. For now, the crow tends to jump closer to him, squatting down under the gabled roof after its meal. “That is not an answer,” the crow insists, opening its mouth to squawk. That thundering voice becomes more real, more human. Clover will never wrap his head around the way the avian beak opens only for rich, gruff baritone to emerge, but the voice gives him a sense of peace, comfort, and he is thankful it speaks to him once more.

Clover replies, “You are a god, and I am a human. I do not mind offering worship- it is what we do, as people.” He smiles, a little embarrassed, a little hesitant, as he adds, “I almost prefer this, honestly.”

“In what way?” The bird cocks its head to the side, red eyes watching Clover keenly.

“I feel like my prayers are reaching _someone._ You’re real.”

The bird’s chest feather puff up. “All the gods are real, child.”

“But you’re the only one who’s ever answered me.”

His words hang heavy in the air, and he leans back on his hands, relishing in the feel of grass and white clover and cinquefoil while the crow ponders his words. There is a lightness in his chest, a weight that has been removed upon voicing those words; yet, there is also gratitude. He had thought that his days of tilling the soil would be thankless, his only chance at companionship in his solitude perhaps coming from his rare visits into the nearest town. To have a daily interaction with this tiny creature- and perhaps from now on, this booming voice- lights a gentle spark in his heart which he does not take for granted.

Finally, the god murmurs, “So what do you wish for? I cannot give you anything. I cannot help you in the ways you have demanded over the past days.”

Clover looks up, taken but the silhouette of leaves against a lilac sky. “In that case… I would very much like you coming to visit me in this shrine,” he admits after a moment of thought. “I would like it if you tell me if my harvest grows better over time- I don’t really have an eye, nor a thumb, for it yet. I would like it if you wish me luck, perhaps.”

The crow trills, clicks, shakes his head. “I cannot provide you that last request, nor do you want me to remain here for too long.”

“Why’s that?”

The bird seems to deflate, the voice’s edge dying off, leaving that baritone weary and soft. “I am not a god which anyone should keep around,” he murmurs. “I am the god of a million things; a million small tragedies; a million tears, heartbreaks, little disappointments. Losses before one’s time, things broken just beyond salvation. I am the god of misfortune.”

Clover’s breath catches in his throat as he looks up at the crow, twisting in his seat to look at the creature. There is a clear desolation about the creature, the bird alternating between looking away and simply tucking its head under its wing, hiding from Clover’s sight.

How would it feel to be the embodiment of ill luck?

Clover frowns. It sounds terribly lonely.

With a groan and a huff as his joints creak and his leg throbs, he manages to climb up onto his knees. One hand presses over his heart, and the other reaches out to the bird, fingers relaxed and slightly curled in invitation. He closes his eyes as he responds, “Well, in that case, then I ask that you _do_ stick around, if you can.”

The god asks, “But… but why?”

“For you may bring these terrible things, but it would be harder to face inevitable suffering alone.” He smiles, bowing his head slightly. “Food is tastier when it is shared, after all.”

There is a long silence, and for a moment, the wind seems to die down. Clover’s hair does not stir any longer. He pauses, debating on whether he should open his eyes, wondering whether the creature has flown away, leaving him behind- perhaps forever.

However, it is not a wing or talon or feather which finally creeps onto Clover’s outstretched hand; it is another hand, a cool touch, long fingers finding their way into his own hand. Clover shivers immediately, the touch so eerily smooth that a chill runs down his spine; and yet, as he lifts his chin, he does not open his eyes.

He does not need to.

It is blurry, but the image of a man which he saw that first day he built the shrine is clearer now. Seated upon the pedestal, body hunched slightly under the low roof, the man’s crimson eyes watch Clover resolutely, dark hair grey-streaked and falling into his eyes, a straight nose set over a thin mouth curled fondly at the corners. There is a shadow upon his chin- stubble, Clover’s brain supplies, for it is too blurred to be certain- but the rest of his torso is bare, feathery cloth covering his legs from the waist down.

Clover sucks in a breath, mind racing. Humans do not get to see the true form of deities- not unless they are clergymen, not unless their soul is devoted. He has never heard of such a casual reveal to an unimportant individual as he.

Yet, the man’s mouth opens. “Can you see me?” he murmurs, lips moving in time with that gentle voice.

Clover shivers again, the voice striking his very soul. “Yes,” he whispers, his heart beating through his chest, the sound filling his eardrums, drowning out everything but the wind still gently tugging his hair. He _can_ see this deity, in all its handsome, powerful glory, albeit through blurred, mortal eyes.

“You are certain you wish me to stay?”

His mouth is dry, but he croaks out in earnest, “If my company suffices, then yes. I would like that.”

Lips curl further, a breathtaking smile visible despite the fogged up image painted underneath Clover’s eyelids. “I look forward to your harvests.”

Clover grins, but before he can respond, an errant thought enters his mind. “What shall I call you?”

“I do not have any need for a name in particular. It is you humans who rely upon them, no? Choose one which is fitting.”

“…Qrow.”

And to his surprise, the blurry man snorts, fingers squeezing Clover’s fondly before releasing his hand. “Elegant. I see you weren’t a poet or creator before you decided to try your hand at farming.”

Clover’s eyes snap open in pure shock at the ribbing, but when he finds himself looking at the pedestal with his own gaze, he is with no one but the bird once more. The crow squawks, almost in laughter.

He carefully lifts himself up, wincing as his joints retaliate. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Qrow,” he murmurs, bowing his head again. “Do you like blackberries? I found some in the fields.”

The crow coos and clicks and trills, nodding its head enthusiastically. Clover beams, brushing his hair back out of his eyes for the nth time that day- it still feels _so odd_ to not be short, to not be gelled back, to not be perfect and pristine as any ranking officer must be- before replacing his tattered straw hat upon his head. “Tomorrow, then.”

That night, as he is ready to fall asleep, he opens the window and leans his folded arms upon the sill in his bedroom, looking out at the dark treeline. This god, Qrow, says that he is the god of misfortune.

And yet, Clover has not seen any Grimm during his entire week here. He has never felt safer in his entire life, in fact. His old weapon, Kingfisher, has been gathering dust for a week, and Clover has no desire nor need to clean it off, for he knows in his heart that he does not need it. Not here.

As he whispers this truth into the air, murmuring his thanks for protecting this little patch of land in which Clover longs to find solitude from his internal torment, the breeze pushes his hair back out of his eyes once more, and he smiles, making a note to himself to find as many blackberries as possible. And then, he shall fix up the shrine- make the roof taller, so that this lonely god shall be able to straighten his back and sit comfortably upon his pedestal. That shall be his mission for the next day. He shall see it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clover gets mocked even by god!Qrow? oof


	3. Chapter 3

The days pass into weeks, turning what becomes a clumsy attempt at a pastoral life into an ordinary, daily routine, full of familiarity and growing skill. Clover finds comforts in the motions of the day; he is a creature of habit, of rules and regimen. Too many years in Atlas’ military have taught him that order is the best way to retain inner peace and strength, so he follows the same patterns until his footsteps have carved a path into the overgrown grasses outside his home, until the animals no longer try to build nests and burrows near his tools, until the tree branches leave a little opening for him to go visit the shrine.

As the days have passed, so too has this shrine. He has reinforced it with more wood and stone, adding layers to the outer walls. He has painted the gabled roof a burgundy colour and added perches to the posts, places where the crow may land, leaving enough space for the god to sit comfortably. It has begun to look like a proper place of offering, of worship and respect. He always was a fast learner, and his improving carpentry skills are proof.

The other animals do not enter the shrine even when Qrow is there, so he does not have to worry about having the pedestal defiled or broken, for they respect the deity which has settled into this makeshift altar. It is reassuring to know he can leave offerings without fearing them being plundered by rabbits and mice. Clover finds a large bowl in the china cupboard, dusty yet pristine from unused hidden in the farmhouse’s cellar; it is decorated with delicate vines and berries and filigree carved into wood, but it is sturdy enough to endure even the harshest of pecks.

He relates this to Qrow proudly as he lays down this beautiful bowl with some wild mint he has found in the fields, alongside yet another helping of blackberries. The crow squawks in a way that sounds remarkably like laughter, but Clover does not mind, simply holding out his open palm. The crow does not hesitate to hop forward, tilting its head, offering its cheek for scratching and petting which Clover is more than happy to provide.

Qrow does not speak often. Occasionally as Clover relays his finds upon his fields, proudly pointing out things like his fresh bean sprouts growing in the corner of his garden, or announcing the set of turnip seeds he has sown in another, he can close his eyes and catch a glimpse of a wry, fond smile. Qrow’s visage is blurred, but Clover can feel red lingering upon him. That is the most humanity he receives.

That red always looks the most intrigued when Clover tells him of his trips into the nearest town to pick up meat and bread and produce (he dreams of being able to sell his own radishes at the weekend farmer’s market always open upon the main street, but he knows this dream is far-off, so he makes do with befriending the local sellers in order to learn their harvesting secrets), so Clover makes it a point to bring back little knickknacks for the bird god; shiny stones from the creek running through town, small pins from a gift shop, glass baubles that catch the light. At first, Clover thinks that the god throws them away, or perhaps spirits them off to its nest high up in the canopy. That idea is debunked fairly quickly as he lingers in the clearing one day, watching the bird pick up the day’s offering of a tiny red and yellow marble; the god hops over to behind the pedestal, where it pushes a flat slab of rock off the ground with surprising strength. Even at a distance, Clover can see the hole in the ground underneath sparkling with hidden treasures as the marble joins the pile, and Clover retreats. He goes to bed feeling content, appreciated.

There must not be much to do as a god, Clover thinks. Not around sunset, around the time when Clover retires for the evening to relay his adventures. Perhaps that is why he does not feel any shame in rambling on about his thoughts, about the birds he has seen and the strange plants he has found, about the feeling of dry versus damp dirt under his fingers where his childhood was filled with coal and snow. He runs to the shrine when the first warm summer rain happens, for he has never seen precipitation other than snow and ice and sleet; to feel water that is cool but not deadly without protection is wonderful, and the crow laughs at him from under its covering in the shrine.

Clover does not mind. He finds that he quite likes the rains of Anima, at least these warmer ones. Lying upon a bed of white clover and broadleaf plantain, the water washes away sweat and dirt and grime from his face. He jokingly tells Qrow that it is to save on his water bill, and that is why he subjects himself to it, although the bird clearly has no idea what he means. It is not used to ways of this modern world, after all.

In the nighttime, Clover can sometimes hear distant howls, the sounds too far away to raise his hackles but loud enough for him to recognize the timber of Beowolves and Boarbatusks and Ursai. Kingfisher continues to gather dust, however, for Clover knows he is safe.

His prayers have reached a god. Qrow shall protect him.

One day, as Clover is clambering to his feet shakily after watching the sun sink below the horizon through the gap in the trees, Qrow’s voice finally enters the clearing yet again. “You are still in pain,” Qrow whispers. His voice no longer booms through the trees, rattling the air around them. He sounds like just a man- a shining, distant man with red eyes and a quiet loneliness sewn within. “You seem to ache.”

Clover freezes, midway through picking up the knife and small block of wood with which he was attempting to whittle, swallowing thickly. “Yes. My leg hurts.”

“What has happened?”

The man sighs, removing his hat for a moment to push dun-brown strands back and out of his eyes. “I was a soldier,” he murmurs, replacing thatched straw upon his brow.

“From here?”

“No. From Atlas.”

“I know not where your human borders lie.”

Clover gestures northward, wincing as his wrists pop with the motion. “It is at the top of the world- the continent of Solitas, covered in ice and snow. I have never seen as much _green_ as I have here; I do not think we even could sustain a fraction of this life.”

“Then how have you survived?” The question is genuine, curious. “Humans cannot thrive without heat.”

A rush of pride surges through him, a lifetime of patriotism then quickly quelled by another dull wave of pain radiating from his knee. “Humans cannot thrive without heat, but we _can_ thrive with ingenuity. We’ve found ways.”

“But you could not heal your leg?”

He knows it is said with no ill intent. The words still sting beyond measure, however. He does not know how to explain what happened after that fateful mission into the underground caverns north of Mantle; he does not know how to explain the pure terror of being slowly crushed by ice, of depleting oxygen, of having all communications disrupted and slowly losing feeling in a leg that is bent in too many directions to do anything.

He does not know how to explain that not all injuries are physical.

“We have incredible doctors in my homeland,” he begins, unsure. “They managed to put me back together after an accident.” Rolling up his pant leg, he sets his foot upon the edge of the raised outcropping so that the bird can hop closer and take a look. Long, pink, angry welt-like scars, more from surgery after surgery than the original injuries, trail all the way up his calf, his knee, extending up to his thigh. Tapping his skin lightly, he says, “There is metal all along my leg now, holding bone together inside.”

The crow opens its beak. “Humans are incredible.” There is a quiet grief in his tone as Qrow lightly nudges Clover’s ankle with his head, laying his beak upon his skin. Clover shivers, closing his eyes; behind his eyelids, he can see long, bony fingers tracing scars faintly upon the wind. Then, he opens his eyes and smiles, wan, heart stretched taut to almost breaking.

“I should go,” he breathes.

“I wish I could heal you,” Qrow murmurs.

Clover shakes his head. “I have prayed to the Great Brothers and to their healer children for many long years. No one saved me- no one responded to a mere soldier.” He drops his pant leg and crouches down carefully, running his hand gently down the crow’s back, all the way to the end of its tail feathers. “Your company has saved me more than you know.”

“I will bring you misfortune, not healing.”

“Bring misfortune to the aphids instead, hm? I don’t know how to get more ladybugs to eat them and I don’t want to sprinkle Dust as deterrent all over my garden. It seems dangerous to the plants.”

The crow squawks, almost indignant, but Clover does not mind.

“I think some vegetables should be ready tomorrow. Would you like to eat them?” When the crow shakes his head, Clover laughs. “More for me, then. I’ll bring them anyways.”

“Why?”

He shrugs, stands, waves goodbye. Leaves. He does not know why the sudden surge of embarrassment wells up within him, but as he closes his eyes, he can remember the heartache almost tangible in blurred red; he can remember the way wind traces his scars, scars which he has been trying to ignore for too long. He can sense just how worried the god is for Clover’s wellbeing, but Clover has no idea what in the world he can do to alleviate that concern other than by simply thriving despite his injuries.

Perhaps if he can prove that he can build happiness from this little farm, Qrow will no longer feel the need to apologize so much for what he is, for Clover does not blame him whatsoever for any of his suffering. Qrow has granted him peace during the past month, and the companionship is more than he could have ever asked for. Clover is a man of routines, after all- but he is also a man of solidarity, of working with others, of banding together with his comrades. He is a soldier, not an assassin. He misses leading his team, and that loneliness returns every time he thinks of his former life, but having a partner to keep him company through his days is a lovely gift, too.

_Maybe I’m being too presumptuous in thinking of Qrow as my partner. He is a god, after all._

He pushes those thoughts out of his mind. He is a simple man, and he wants to retain the simplicity of this life. Unless Qrow tells him otherwise, he shall continue to leave offerings in exchange for the comfort the god brings.

Before he goes to bed, he glances out of his window. The sunflowers are popping up from the soil in his little flower garden. He hopes to make it prettier, to remove some more of the weeds the next day. The seller told him that the towering stalks take about two months to begin maturation. Crows enjoy seed- perhaps growing sunflower seeds shall make Qrow happy. Either way, Clover cannot wait to see them bloom, for he has heard that they chase the sun. It sounds like magic.

Leaning out of the window, he casts another little prayer into the wind which embraces his skin. He hopes the vegetables turn out well. He wants Qrow to be proud of his harvest and toil as he watches Clover upon his journey.


	4. Chapter 4

Clover’s peaceful little existence finally begins to bear fruit two months into his life in Anima. He has sprouts growing across his garden. He categorizes and organizes his tiny crop; countless hours are spent in the cellar workshop making little signs upon tiny pieces of plywood which he stakes into the ground, upon which he writes down exactly what he has planted. It does take a little while for him to remember what he shall need to dig up and what can be harvested above ground, for the act of bringing life from soil is still a little mystical to him; still, he is proud to learn to recognize signs of rot and signs of success, and his weekly trips into the nearest town give him more than just supplies as the other far more prosperous farmers share their secrets of the trade.

He brings all of his creations to Qrow each day. The lovely wooden bowl eventually is replaced at the altar by a larger mahogany piece which he picks up in town; it is heavy, sturdy, beautifully polished and unbreakable, so Clover has no qualms about leaving it there and refilling it each evening with the best of the best of his ever-increasing crop. He jokingly likes to put vegetables into the offerings, eliciting squawks of protest and veiled, wan threats from the god’s more human voice; they are always offered in jest, however, and he always makes sure to replace them with nuts and fruits and grain so the bird may actually feast. Qrow is always far calmer after these feedings, his anger dissipating in an instant as Clover rambles about his adventures with the earth.

One day, however, Qrow surprises him beyond all measure. The crow hops closer to Clover whilst he is filling up the bowl with freshly-washed berries, proudly placing the first few strawberries from his patch atop the pile; the creature picks up one berry by the leaf, but rather than eating it, it leaps onto Clover’s arm.

Clover freezes, unsure of what to do. The bird has never touched him aside from coming in for a quick head scratch; how can he react to a god so close?

To his surprise, the bird simply holds the strawberry up to Clover’s mouth. Clover blinks at it, wide-eyed and baffled. Qrow’s voice rings through his mind. “Eat.”

Immediately, Clover shakes his head; he feels the wind caress his cheek, and on instinct, he closes his eyes, feeling a mix of trepidation and wonder as he sees long, elegant fingers in his mind’s eye holding out the strawberry towards his lips. This god wishes to dine with him, to share the meager offering which Clover has brought. There is innocent concern emanating from Qrow’s posture, the man’s rugged form kneeling before him, a glint of worry that breaks through the blurry haze which is his godhood through Clover’s mortal eyes.

Then, Clover’s mind catches up, no longer distracted by the beauty of the god before him. He is being asked to eat from a god’s fingertips.

His eyes spring open, and he stumbles, “Thank you, but I cannot! This is an offering.”

The crow clicks, almost in annoyance. “You never eat with me.”

With a wry chuckle, Clover explains, trying to calm down his racing heart- the scandal of eating a god’s offerings makes his palms clammy, although he tries to hide it from the bird- that he eats inside. “You do better with fruits and nuts, and I do better with the vegetables,” he says gently. “However, a lot of things have to be cooked, so I do that inside.”

“…so you do eat?”

“Yes,” Clover affirms, bowing his head in respect. “Thank you for your concern.”

“But you have grown weaker since coming here.”

He winces. There is no lie there- despite the fact that his muscles are still toned, his body lean and fit and defined, the mass which he had boasted as an operative upon the front lines has faded. He no longer trains, after all. Kingfisher grows thick with dust and memories, and the longer he sets it aside, the longer he fears picking it back up again. What if he no longer remembers how to use it?

For a brief moment, he wonders if that is why he refuses to contact his old comrades. Maybe he is too scared to see them thriving whilst he grows weaker.

Qrow seems to sigh, his husky voice reverberating inside of Clover’s mind. “Why do you cook them? These are all straight from the earth- there is nothing wrong with your harvest. I have seen it so.”

Those words send a rush of gratitude spiraling through him as he takes it in. “Have… you been watching over my garden?”

“You require protection. Your leg still pains you, does it not?”

Something in those words is dizzying, and it sends Clover absolutely reeling. He tumbles back from his knees, landing clumsily upon white clover and grass, the dewy blades feathery-soft under his fingertips.

The crow is startled by this action, but quickly follows after Clover, hopping until it is by Clover’s side. “Why do you weep?”

He brings a hand up to his cheek, startled at the thick, heavy droplets which roll down his sweat-streaked face. He does not know how to respond.

“Human- Clover, why do you weep?”

Wiping up his tears quickly, he whispers, “I… I am fine. Thank you, Qrow.”

And with that, he scurries away, limping pitifully out of the clearing after one final bow to the god.

It is only once he is inside the house that he lets himself collapse properly, his femur aching to hell and back from the strain of it all. He wipes his face with a towel, the weight of Qrow’s words ringing through him, reverberating with such intensity that he can scarcely comprehend it. Qrow has indeed been protecting him, has been watching over him during his simple toil, ensuring that he always made it through alright. He has protected him from Grimm, protected him from scavengers, protected him from loneliness. Clover’s offerings have won him the favour of a god.

And yet, it will never be enough to let Clover protect _himself._

Clover hates it.

Once he has cleaned himself up, bathed and soaked his muscles enough to ease the pain in his leg, he sets about cooking himself dinner. He knows he can eat most of his crop without cooking it; that does not stop him from doing so, anyways. In Atlas, most of the food has to be cooked, since the vast majority of produce must be imported amidst the endless ice, so eating things fresh is rarely an option outside of the upper-class. Clover does not truly know how to prepare things without sticking them into stews.

Perhaps he can ask some of the locals for recipes. Maybe it is time to learn some of Anima’s cooking styles.

His inattentiveness causes some of the garlic he has plucked from the earth two days earlier to burn in the pan; he grimaces, opening up the window and allowing the scent of burning char waft out into the night. He is instantly met with that familiar wind, moving like fingertips over his cheeks, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

Clover sucks in a harrowing breath, steeling himself as he recognizes Qrow’s presence. “…May I eat dinner with you?”

He hears the distant cry of the crow. _Okay._

So, Clover quickly finishes up cooking his meal and carries it outside, bringing with him an extra bowl and spoon, just in case. The clearing is tranquil even after sundown; stars glint through the treetops, shimmering in the night sky. For a moment, Clover is struck by the beauty of it all. Starlight was always nigh-impossible to see in Atlas thanks to the light pollution. He had only ever had the opportunity to examine the constellations above when he was out on missions upon the tundra, but those nights had always been ridden with conflict, not peace. Perhaps he shall come out here more often to stargaze, for his home is the only source of light for quite a ways, and it would be a shame to not indulge in this simple pleasure of which he has heard so much about in tales.

He steps his way over to the pedestal and sets down the bowls. “Would you like any?” he asks into the darkness. His heart falls instantly as he sees the bowl of fruits and rhubarb which he had brought earlier that day sitting in the mahogany bowl still, completely untouched.

After a few breaths, the crow flutters down. It opens its beak and replies, “No, I have already received an offering today.” And then, to Clover’s surprise, the bird nudges over its bowl towards the edge of the outcropping- towards Clover- and hunkers down, beginning to pick berries out.

Clover’s jaw hangs slack. _He waited for me._ There is something so pure in the action that he almost wants to weep again, but this time, not from heartache.

They enjoy their food in companionable quietude. Qrow asks questions about Clover’s stew and bread, trilling and giving him judgemental looks. Clover merely laughs, for it has been months since he has eaten with anyone; even through his time in the hospital and rehabilitation, he had not had many visitors, and his meals had been eaten alone. Even thinking back to it stung. After eating every single meal for so much of his life in the mess hall alongside his comrades, the memory of his time spent recovering physically- and deteriorating mentally- still threatened to break him.

Clover has brought with him a small bowl of his blueberries to eat after his meal. By then, the bird has already finished its own bowl; Clover raises a skeptical, albeit amused brow as the bird hops closer to him, eyeing his fruit dangerously. And, before he can stop himself, he gathers a few up in his hands and holds them out for the bird, not bothering to place them in the offering’s bowl.

And, to his surprise, Qrow eats from his hand.

The wind blows gently around Clover’s form, somehow warming his skin despite the cool night temperatures. Clover closes his eyes and allows himself to sink into it, relishing in the gentle warmth of the creature as the bird hops onto his lap and eats straight from Clover’s bowl, hunkering down with no respect for propriety. As Clover looks at the god through his mind’s eye, he sees the glowing figure right before him, close enough to touch, seated comfortably upon the edge of the outcropping; crimson eyes seem to burn into him as he takes berries one by one to his mouth, eyes never leaving Clover’s face.

Finally, Clover whispers, “Thank you for your protection.”

“It is the least I can do. I told you,” the god adds, voice growing weary, defeated, “I cannot save you from that which haunts you the most.” He chuckles humourlessly. “I told you- go pray to a bigger god. I _can_ perform small acts of kindness, but I cannot bring you anything other than misfortune.”

He puts on a wan smile. “Maybe you can’t help me,” Clover concedes at last, holding out the bowl for the god. There are but a few berries left. “But this? This is a good start.”

“You are a strange human.”

“Loneliness and injury do that to a man.”

“And what would you be if you were still a soldier?”

He thinks for a moment, pondering that question. “Proud. Happy.”

Shockingly enough, Qrow’s face falls. “I wish I could bring you those things. You bring me so much.”

Just those simple, clear words are enough to lighten the burden upon Clover’s shoulders, and he finds himself weeping silently yet again- this time, however, there is no sadness within his tears. “Thank you,” he whispers, clearing his throat to try and retain his composure. “As do you. Please stay in this shrine- I’ll bring offerings as long as you’ll let me.”

Qrow disappears in a gust of wind, and Clover opens his eyes to find the bowl empty once again. He is not lonely anymore, however- the edge has been taken off his pain, and the ache in his leg is overpowered by the warmth in his heart.


	5. Chapter 5

There is nothing in particular that brings Clover to alertness that night; no rhyme nor reason to fuel the fact that he is suddenly awake, mind racing, body itching to leave his home despite the fact that everything aches after another long day in the sun. He tosses and turns, sweats and shivers; the hour is late, and if he sleeps now he may still have a chance at rest.

He tells himself there is no reason to fret. His Scroll has been lighting up all evening, and even now in the wee hours of the morning, it continues to ding and buzz. His old allies have reports to give, rants to vent, confusion to clarify. They are frightened. New species of Grimm have appeared recently, they say. They are slowly losing more and more Huntsmen and Huntresses and they do not know what to do, trapped as they are upon Solitas.

Clover knows they mean no harm by messaging him, by reminding him yet again that he shall never be truly whole again without his true calling. He knows they do not mean to rub in the fact that he, more than anyone else, wishes he could be on the battlefield alongside all of them. He understands why they are turning to him, especially now that he is off the force; his understanding of the Atlesian Military makes him the perfect listening ear, now that he is as far away from Atlesian politics as he could get.

He ignores his Scroll anyways. His leg aches, and Kingfisher hangs upon its hook. He is leading a different life now. It is time to sleep.

Unfortunately, it seems as if peace is not meant to be his that night, so he sighs and crawls out of bed, throwing on some comfortable pants and a hooded sweater before limping down the stairs.

The movement takes more out of him that he would have expected. He pauses at the foot of the stairwell, looking up dolefully to the second floor; he has forgotten his Scroll upstairs, but the thought of crawling back up there makes him dizzy, for the throbbing in his leg is not to be underestimated.

If he had a walking aid, it would be easier, most likely. The thought of having to use a cane at the age of thirty-four frightens him. He is too young.

…this is not what his future was supposed to hold.

Shaking his head wearily, he grabs the flashlight from near the porch, just in case; the moon is out, but with the light reflecting weakly off its crumbling surface and with the clouds beginning to roll in, it is better to be safe than sorry. So, he steps outside, relishing in the cool breeze upon his cheeks, tousling his freshly-dried hair. His ears grow cold- he tosses on his hood, sighing at the instant comfort.

The pathway around the house is lit up by small Dust lamps that should last him a lifetime, so he feels at ease as he circles around the back, making sure to check in on his garden to ensure no wry scavengers are running amok in the shadow of the night. Thankfully, it seems relatively peaceful, so he takes a seat on a wooden stump near his flowerbed. His sunflowers are tiny blooms at this point, the stalks still growing greedily day by day; he chuckles as he sees that they have paired off, each bloom facing one another in the absence of the sunlight. Each one provides the sun they need to get them through the night, he presumes lovingly. It is sweet. He never knew he could feel such affection for plants, but perhaps his slowly-flourishing green thumb holds water, after all.

Then, he hears a rustle in the bushes at the edge of the forest and he freezes. His hand falls to his hip, his body growing cold. Kingfisher is not there. Since when has he begun to brave the nights unarmed? Since when has his complacency truly taken over?

 _Qrow will protect me,_ he tells himself.

He pauses, taking stock of himself for a second, a wry, surprised smile blossoming onto his lips. He feels no doubt in that thought- naught but absolute faith, trust. He genuinely believes Qrow will protect him, always.

There is something so deeply comforting, and deeply _frustrating,_ about knowing that he has won the gods’ favour after it is too late.

For now, however, he has two choices: return to the house and get Kingfisher, or continue without his weapon.

Clover grits his teeth and totters back to his feet, heart beginning to race as he stumbles over to the treeline. The clearing is but a few steps beyond. He shall seek Qrow.

To his surprise, it is not an empty clearing which he finds, nor is it a corvid resting within the shrine once Clover steps into the serene stillness; instead, he immediately is forced to squint, to close his eyes almost all the way, unable to bear the sight before him. Qrow stands at the opposite end of the clearing in his humanoid form, his tall back strong and proud as it faces Clover, the burgundy cloth wrapping around his waist trailing lazily behind him, floating off the ground supernaturally.

Clover leans upon a nearby trunk, resting his weight onto his good leg, giving his injury reprieve; as he does so, he allows his mind to wander, to project. What exactly did Qrow look like underneath that godly haze? He yearns to know, to see if those eyes are really as crimson as the blurred image seems to suggest, to see if that face is just as proud and haughty and profoundly lonely as he imagines. He can always see differing shades in that dark hair. On a night like tonight, how would the moonlight reflect off those strands? Would it swallow the light, consume it whole? Or would it reflect the starlight and illuminate the clearing, just as bright and silky as the feathers of the corvid whose form Qrow assumes each afternoon by Clover’s side?

He shakes his head at his folly. It is not his place to know. His daydreams shall have to be enough.

It is hard to tell what is happening as Qrow moves- Clover is but a mortal, and his eyes will never be strong enough to see past the blood-red, shimmering haze which seems to shroud Qrow’s body eternally, blurring it from view- but Clover finds himself ignoring the god, instead focusing on what he leaves behind.

As the elder moves from one tree to another, the canopy above seems to move and sway in the breeze, allowing moonlight to filter in and illuminate Qrow’s walking path. In every footstep, what was perfectly smooth grass before is overtaken instantly by weeds; his hand trails across shrubs which lose their fruit before their time; his gaze falls upon a branch upon a tree which could have held on, but seems to crack and crumble into the fodder below by pure happenstance. Puffball mushrooms growing at the base of the trees do not release their spores which godly feet brush them by, destined to die unfulfilled.

Clover’s heart aches as he watches the god pause, then flinch as another branch comes crashing down, a squeaking animal racing off into the distance. He wants to reach out, to speak up, for this is the first time he has seen Qrow’s powers at play, and they are… frankly, to Clover, they’re _sad._

If he could see Qrow’s face, he is sure that the god would agree.

To his surprise, he does not need to raise his voice, for the god breaks the silence soon, murmuring, “Why do you stand there?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he admits wholly. “I heard noises, and I thought it might be you.”

“And you would disturb me?”

“Not intentionally, no.”

Qrow seems to sigh, the exhale from his lips sending a gust of wind towards Clover’s face, knocking the hood back from his head. “Then what would you like?” He gestures to the clearing. “I am but stretching my legs.”

Before he can stop himself, Clover murmurs, “Don’t you usually fight Grimm in the nighttime?”

Qrow pauses, and Clover sucks in a breath- there is a change in his demeanor, as if Qrow is stricken by the question. Turning away from him, Qrow begins to walk back to the shrine, weeds springing up in his path, snapping stalks and wilting ferns in his wake. “They are not present in this forest tonight,” he mutters, the words brisk and cool as the wind upon Clover’s face. “I am free to do as I please.”

“Of course,” Clover acknowledges, bowing slightly with his hand over his heart which beats anxiously in his chest. Has he overstepped? Has he accidentally spurned this deity? “I apologize.”

To his surprise, Qrow does not show anger as he takes a seat upon the outcropping. “Come here, Clover.”

Trembling, Clover pushes himself off the trunk and hobbles over, eyes focused upon the grass to avoid blindness at the deity’s magic. He stands awkwardly before the outcropping, unsure of where to go, where to look, what to do.

The wind swirls around Clover’s body and guides him to sit gently down, and Clover is forced to close his eyes as Qrow reaches out, pressing an unnaturally cool, soothing touch upon his injured leg. He can feel the scar tissue pulsating underneath the thin cotton of his pants, can feel the bone trembling underneath, stitched together by metal sheets and bolts at the core. Soon, the pain subsides, leaving naught but the dull ache which has grown synonymous with his daily living, and the tension final eases off his shoulders at the relief.

The god murmurs, “You have seen what my touch brings in this world unchecked.”

Clover nods, keeping his eyes closed, yet still averting his gaze from the glowing creature before him. “Yes.”

“I bring misfortune. A million coincidences piling upon one another, a million chances for things taking the worst path, all building to an untimely loss.”

“It looks like death, but it isn’t, is it?” Clover replies.

He can sense the wind stir as Qrow shakes his head. “It is simply fate taking the worst path possible. If something may go wrong, it shall.” He snorts, oddly human. “I… I’ve never been good at games of chance, let’s say.”

Clover’s mind scrabbles for something to say, something to do- for this deity before him speaks these words with such grim resignation that it breaks Clover’s heart. “But you are good at many things, are you not? Flight- fighting the creatures of Grimm.”

“Well, yes,” Qrow responds mildly, “all lesser deities who are able to walk the earth’s surface in the light of day may reap the creatures of Grimm. They destroy the balance of life and death. It is our calling to prevent that balance from being disrupted.”

Idly, Clover says, “That’s good. Humans don’t exactly need help disrupting that balance.”

“Unfortunately.”

There is an oddly companionable silence between the two for a moment before Clover finally comments, “You govern many things, it seems. It’s incredible.”

That comment seems to throw Qrow off-kilter, the god starting, the leaves stirring for a brief moment in a frenzy around them. “I- what? Are you not frightened?”

Clover shrugs. He pauses, debating on whether he should share his frustrations of the night; then, he decides to simply speak, explaining the situation with the Grimm increasing upon Solitas. He pats his hip, murmuring at last, “I feel safe, here. In the last fifteen years, I’ve never before left my front door without my weapon. I know I don’t need it here, though.” He beams up to the god, catching a glimpse of crimson watching him wide-eyed even through his own closed eyelids. “Why worry when I know someone is guarding this little place?”

The sigh which leaves Qrow’s lips is as resigned as ever. “I can save you from Grimm for now. I cannot save you from everything. Misfortune will fall upon you eventually.”

At those words, Qrow begins to turn away; and oddly enough, the thought of him leaving like this causes Clover’s heart to seize in his chest. Frantic, he opens his eyes at last, glancing around his seat to find something, anything, that can convince the deity to stay for just a little while longer. The breeze feels wonderful, after all.

His eyes fall upon the weeds which have sprung up around Qrow’s feet. Hesitantly, he leans forward, squinting in the darkness; however, thanks to the white blossom, he is quick to find what he is subconsciously looking for, breaking off the tiny stalk with callused, careful fingers.

He holds up the tiny bud of white clover which has bloomed from Qrow’s presence towards the god, closing his eyes reverently, but keeping his smile open, trusting. “Maybe. I don’t think misfortune is necessarily a bad thing, though. I think it can be quite pretty, too.”

Perhaps it is a trick of the moonlight filtering through the trees, but he feels as if he can see the god’s lips quiver for just a moment before the warmest touch he has ever felt in his life brushes his fingers, taking the clover from him. “…you are a strange human.”

He grins, feeling a little bit of bluster and pride pop back into him. “Still your lucky charm though, right?”

Glowing red eyes crease with age and knowledge and mirth before the deity vanishes, leaving Clover alone in the clearing to return to his home.

When he comes back the next afternoon with his daily offering, however, he finds that there is a carving inlaid into the stone of the outcropping, right where the corvid usually sits and feasts; it is a tiny stalk, a head of buds, a little sprig of white clover carved into the rock. Before he can stop himself, Clover’s fingers trail over it, tracing the indent with such awe that he cannot form coherent thought.

The crow flutters to his side. Clover simply turns his palm which explores the engraving upwards, fingers waiting. The corvid rests its head into his palm, closing its eyes, trilling softly as it rests, at ease in his presence.

White clovers die quickly in Qrow’s presence, but stone protected from rain shall last forever. Clover does not regret trusting his heart to a deity once again.


	6. Chapter 6

Clover has almost found peace when the rains arrive. Then, it all changes.

It begins as a gentle shower, sprinkling his fields and saving him the energy of having to water his garden. The petals on his small sunflowers bounce around with every droplet, and Clover cannot help but to take a moment and remove his hat, feeling rain falling upon his face, washing away sweat and grime. He will never get over how soft the rain can feel upon his skin. It’s almost magical.

But something is wrong. The wind begins to pick up, but it is not Qrow’s tender touch; a gnawing in his stomach sets his senses buzzing, trepidation building in his core. He has always had a good sense for these things, can always sense danger and impending doom. That is the only reason he did not lose his life in the battle that took away his combat prowess, after all.

He jogs over the best he can to the shrine, stumbling as he slips upon damp grass, carrying his basket of picked berries with him. He kneels before the shrine, hand over his heart, quickly dumping fruits into the heavyset bowl protected underneath the rooftop. “Qrow, please,” he whispers, “is this normal? What’s going on? Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Qrow does not appear, but he can still sense the sadness ringing through the air as that godly voice whispers upon the winds, “I told you, you should not pray to me, Clover. I’m sorry. I cannot help you.” Even softer, the voice adds bitterly, “I cannot help anyone.”

And then, that sadness is gone, as is everything else; there is nothing but an empty shrine and the distant howls of Grimm as the wind grows in speed, intensity, to the point where Clover has to squint to see against the slanted downpour and hold his hat against his head for fear of flying away.

He swallows thickly. He needs to get inside. The cellar is stocked up with goods; he has been slowly building up a store of food, canned and dried and preserved, for when the winter months hit. Snow makes his leg ache terribly, and he does not know if transport vessels will brave winter storms to bring him into town, so he has been stocking up; however, the sinking in his gut tells him that he shall likely be using these stores far earlier than anticipated.

He has barely finished nailing down a tarp over his fields and tying his taller sunflowers to large stakes before the storms hit in earnest, and he looks out into the distance only to see a horrifying sight; trees in the far distance are being pushed over with the force of the incoming gales. The rain is so thick it feels like needles against his skin, drenching him, carving into his very bones. He hurries inside and tumbles into the cellar, locking the door behind him and keeping his eye out on the one window, watching as destruction unfolds.

The electricity cuts out within the hour. The rain builds a layer so thick upon the small window that he can no longer see what is occurring, so all Clover can do is huddle with blankets around his shoulders and a candle flickering upon the one worktable down there, listening to thunder and lightning crashing through the air and striking the earth, decimating the fields his grandfather had cultivated throughout his lifetime. All Clover can do is pray that lightning does not strike his home; he does not know if it is fire-resistant. It may be too old to have been built with flame retardant within the walls.

Eventually, the candle dies. Clover can likely go upstairs into the main floor, but the thought of being up there is quickly destroyed as he hears a tremendous shattering from above. Something must have flown through the windows; he does not feel the chilling presence of the Grimm, after all. Perhaps it is a tree branch, or maybe a post. He hopes it is nothing too big; while he is still strong, he does not know how much he can handle with his leg in its state.

Halfway through the first day, Clover has the sense to brave going upstairs to find his Scroll which sits just by the cellar door. He uses it to light up the cellar, projecting a holoscreen to keep track of the impacts around his area; while the signal is fuzzy thanks to electrical interference, it is clear that he is not the only one suffering. Then, the idle thought crosses his mind: from where is Qrow weathering this storm?

The thought of bringing a deity into his home is frightening, and yet, he wishes he had held out his hand, had offered to provide shelter. He could have provided a place for the corvid to rest, at the very least.

He prays that the shrine will be alright- hand over his breast, eyes closed, head bowed in reverence to the Great Brothers. _Please protect that shrine. Please do not let his misfortune hurt him._

He does not want Qrow to hurt any longer. He thinks back to Qrow’s words before the storm began. The way the deity carries himself is… is just too lonely.

The storm finally passes after nearly two days of incessant rains, flooding and tearing and wreaking havoc around the region. At dawn on the third day, the clouds break, the winds dying down within the half hour, leaving behind no trace of the rampant gusts that had torn the earth asunder just moments before. On his Scroll, the reports say the entire tempest was unforeseen, unexpected; no one could have predicted the sheer damage caused by the might of nature. They whisper it is due to the Great Brother’s wrath, for too many people have forsaken the ways of worship in favour of technology. They whisper that it is a sign of the end, that the peace which has been delicately maintained between the kingdoms and between the forces of light and darkness is finally crumbling.

Clover does not care either way. The moment it is safe to exit his cellar, he limps up the staircase raggedly, desperation building to a crescendo within his heart. The damp within the cellar has instilled a stiffness in his left leg that is nearly crippling, sending jolts of pain through his system; for a moment, he ponders opening up his old kit, finding the medication his old medical officer had provided him. He squashes that thought in a heartbeat, however. He shall endure.

If he grows dependent upon painkillers, he does not know how to procure more, and he cannot bear the thought of wasting away in addiction, too.

Eventually, he makes it up to his common room. It is almost heartbreaking to see the destruction; his floorboards are soaked, the baseboards splattered and ready to grow mold. A giant tree branch has speared itself through his kitchen window, leaving shards of glass and porcelain scattered across the floor. A shelf has fallen, cupboards have been torn off their hinges due to the strength of the gales, one curtain rod broken and askew.

It is nice to see his grandfather’s photographs upon the mantelpiece intact, though. He does not know what he would do if one of his only remaining photos of himself and his grandfather was destroyed.

Still, he has different priorities for this day. He checks the water pipes, ensuring that they are clean and functioning. He checks the electricity, relief crashing over him as the lights flicker and stay on, buzzing dimly in the background. The second floor has been relatively unscathed, although his bed is soaking wet after he had forgotten to close the window at the start of the storm; thankfully, his room is sparsely decorated, and there are few damages aside from that. The understanding that everything shall be alright is heady, a drug in itself that eases his anxieties.

He really is a lucky charm. Perhaps Qrow had been correct in that statement.

So, he bathes, sighing contentedly as hot water soothes the ache, and then gets dressed, ready for the arduous task ahead. He is going to be working for many days to come, but knowing that he shall have hot water and electricity already puts him so far ahead of so many others, so he does not complain, does not stress.

The only thing that continues to ail him, however, is his niggling worry about the shrine. The moment he is ready to go, he shuffles carefully out of the door, wincing as he finally gets to see the full extent of the damages; the tarp has been mostly ripped off, his little vegetable patch is flooded, his garden is full of broken branches and stalks of long grass that have been ripped and flung from the large fields to the west. The fields themselves are flattened, as if a giant had come through and stepped across them, snapping stems and destroying entire patches with its weight, its might. The forest to the east looks relatively unscathed, although he can see toppled trees spilling out in the distance, the force of the gales clearly too strong for even a deity’s magic to protect them.

His heart crumbles a little as he finds his tallest sunflower snapped in two, the flower’s breathtaking visage lying face-down, unceremoniously upended into the dirt. He picks it up, pulling out his pocketknife and quickly cutting off the broken stem, lifting the flower and brushing dirt off its petals. It still retains its colour, and after a quick shake and wipe of his handkerchief, the remaining grime wipes off, leaving behind a beautiful flower destroyed far too early.

He sighs. He knew that storms in Anima are far different from the blizzards in Atlas, but to see it so clearly laid out for him- to know that his work can be destroyed so easily- is gutting.

_How is the shrine?_

Clutching the sunflower to his chest, he totters over to the forest, slipping into the clearing. A part of him expects to catch sight of the serenity he is so used to beholding within this place. However, it seems that even his little spot of tranquility has been disrupted, fallen branches and destroyed bushes spilling in around the edges. A few smaller twigs and leaves are spread out across the grasses and weeds.

And, at the very end of it all, his little shrine is broken.

His heart falls into his boots as he steps across muddied, torn grass, finally halting in front of the rocky outcropping. The storm has caused a young sapling which had been growing behind the shrine to topple, smashing the roof into pieces. He does not know how he can salvage it, for the walls have crumbled, the wooden outposts too damp and heavy to even pick up in places. The only thing truly intact is the bowl, the carving, and the perch.

His home shall be fine. He does not want Qrow to be left like this, however; so, he bows his head, places a hand against his breast, and offers up a silent prayer for the lonely deity to be alright. He lays the sunflower against the bowl before he stands, already weary at the task before him. He was a soldier, though; he shall not back away from this challenge. Tenacity runs in his blood.

He is halfway through lifting the sapling off the roof when a familiar rustling of wings catches his attention. Clover perks up, glancing over his shoulder only to let out a gasp, for the crow watches him with red eyes. “You’re alright!” he says, straightening up. “I was worried about you.”

The crow does not respond for a long, long time; then, it opens its beak. “Your home is destroyed, your fields flooded, and yet, you worry about my well-being?” it whispers.

Clover nods, a sheepish grin pulling his lips. “I… well, yes, although when you say it out loud, I suppose it’s a little presumptuous; you’re a god, after all.”

The crow is silent again, but Clover is content to wait.

Eventually, Qrow continues. “There has never been a gale so powerful here before. I… could not protect you. I told you.”

He shrugs, turning back to the sapling. He has almost dislodged it. “I’m quite alright, though- I’ve been storing up food and grain and supplies for the winter anyways, so I was able to weather it out.” He shares his thought about his own luck, flashing a smile at the crow which watches him from above. “Besides, I’ve gone through far worse.” These words are truth- he would hide from a million storms in exchange for never suffering through his accident again.

The flapping of wings catches his attention, and he glances over, smiling fondly at the crow; it has flown to examine the small sunflower which Clover has brought, a brilliant splash of colour in the darkness of the clearing.

With one final tug, the sapling is free, and he is able to toss the top of the trunk over and behind the outcropping. He shall bring his axe later to cut through the wood- goodness knows it would be a good idea to begin cutting wood in case his electricity and hot water do one day die, which is a possibility he has never even entertained after growing up surrounded by Atlesian levels of technology and modern convenience- but for now, he can leave it there while he clears out the rest of the broken shrine. Perhaps he shall invest in bricks when he goes into town next- bricks and mortar, stone to withstand the winds, and perhaps some waterproof shingling. It can be a project he can take pride in.

Quietly, Qrow murmurs, his voice a whisper upon the wind which curls around Clover’s ear, “You do not need to rebuild it. I have only brought you misfortune.”

“But I want to, and that in itself is a good thing,” Clover responds evenly. His smile twitches as he pauses, reaching deep within himself to spill the truth. “It’s been… a very, very long time since I’ve felt passionate about anything. This is good for me, don’t worry.” He shifts his weight and winces, for the air pressure drops and rises in the past few days, accompanied by the chill, have wreaked havoc upon his leg.

“Close your eyes.”

Immediately, Clover obeys, barely making it in time for the god’s brilliance to flood the clearing; however, he is still somehow able to see the image before him even through his eyelids, for it is so close, so near, so _real,_ that he can scarcely comprehend it.

For just that one brief moment, the blurry haze which normally surrounds the deity’s true form parts, and Clover can _see-_ a handsome profile, a straight nose leading to a thin, pouting mouth, a sharp chin and defined jawline covered lightly in stubble. He can see almond-shaped eyes framed by thick, dark lashes, hair so dark it teeters between pitch and grey, with streaks of sunlight shimmering through it falling into crimson irises that are so weary, so mournful, that Clover almost weeps. He has never seen Qrow so clearly before.

He is _beautiful._

And this beautiful deity holds Clover’s sunflower up, a tiny, rueful smile quirking his lips as the sun finally climbs high enough in the sky to filter through the canopy above, illuminating already glowing skin even more. Clover cannot tell if it is a trick of the light, but as Qrow breathes in deep and Clover falls roughly to his knees upon soft, damp grass, it seems as if both the sunflower and Qrow tilt their faces upwards to the sky, and they together are perfect.

Qrow says quietly, voice low and rumbling and resonant, “This offering… thank you.”

Then, the god is gone, and Clover’s leg no longer aches. The sunflower is gone. And, the next day, when Clover returns with a few bricks and concrete which he has found in the cellar to begin the rebuilding process anew, he finds that a sunflower has been carved into the pedestal alongside his white clover, and Clover’s heart is warm.


	7. Chapter 7

It is one thing to boldly announce that he shall be able to rebuild his little garden, the shrine, his vegetable patch. It is another thing entirely for him, the inexperienced soldier, to actually _do_ it.

So, the moment he can, he books the local airship to take him to town, giving him a chance to not only restock on his emergency supplies, but to also ask around, to survey the damages- to see how others are attempting to rebuild. The farmer’s market has been decimated, much to his horror; the storm has flooded and destroyed and damaged everything, leaving naught but rotting fruit and smashed stalls. People are already working on the cleanup, but it is with a grim air of resignation that they set about their tasks- not a light of hope to be seen.

When he asks a local seller what has left everyone so broken, the man can only mutter, “It’ll take too long to regrow enough and preserve it for the winter. Get ready for the famine, son.”

Clover swallows thickly, processing this information as best he can. For those who make ends meet day to day by tilling the soil, this rampant, raging storm must have destroyed them; Clover, who sits on a throne of privilege made of Atlesian lien thanks to honorable service medals and veteran stipends and disability grants, has no need for such fears.

He has never even really thought about it. It makes him a little sick.

So, he sets about doing what he can. They are collecting donations- he gives the majority of his month’s stipend to it, much to the amazement and surprise of the townsfolk. They know naught of him but that he is a former soldier, after all. Simple country folk have no need to know of the status and grandeur of the Ace Operatives of Atlas. They do not know that he was a commander in his former life, that he was respected and revered.

They do know, however, that he’s got a limp from a horrible injury, a clumsy, but earnest smile, a developing green thumb, and a nice little blueberry plant, though. And now, they know he’s genuinely trying to be one of them, for he is sharing his wealth with this little community when he has no reason to, and the gratitude in their hearts warms Clover’s up in a way he was not expecting.

As he is leaving with his boxes of supplies to be loaded up on the afternoon flight back to his little farm, it is a grand surprise to see an older woman step forward, catching his attention. He recognizes her; she runs the tiny bakery upon the corner of the main street, by the bank and the library. Her loaves are always a treat after a long day. “You were hit by the storm as well, weren’t you?” she murmurs, gesturing towards the glass he has bought to replace his windows, the new furniture, the wood and brick to rebuild the shrine. “Will you be able to do that with your injury?”

He smiles ruefully, shrugging. “I don’t know, but I’m under no real time constraints, so I’m not too worried. Honestly,” he admits, a little sheepish, “I wish I could help more here- I don’t know how much use I’d be though with my injury.”

The woman grins. “Well, I’ve just the thing- would you need any farmhands?”

He frowns, shaking his head. “No, I don’t have any large fields or anything-“

“Ma’am, I told you, you don’t need to find us any work!” a bright, chipper young voice cries.

Clover pauses, glancing over his shoulder. There is a young girl standing confidently there, hands on her hips, a smattering of freckles upon smiling cheeks. She raises an orange brow at him, scrutinizing his appearance with all the sage wisdom of one evaluating a prize pig- the precocious air about her makes Clover snort, for she cannot be more than ten or twelve years old.

It is not her age that confuses him, though- it is her colouring, her accent. She sounds and looks like she should hail from Vale, or, more accurately, from Atlas.

A young boy her age, slightly smaller than her, walks up to join the girl. “Nora,” he mutters in an accent that could only belong to one of the smaller, more upper-class communities near Mistral, “it’s probably a good idea if we can get _something,_ at least.”

She pouts, immediately grabbing onto his sleeve. “But _Ren,_ he just said he doesn’t have a farm!”

The older woman chuckles, catching Clover’s attention once more. “They’re good kids,” she explains quietly as the two children begin to debate the pros and cons of working on a small farm. “They wandered in here two years ago after their home was attacked by Grimm; they’re real good at helping with little tasks, but the big stuff is still a little too much for them, oftentimes.”

Clover nodded slowly, understanding dawning. “Little tasks like righting a vegetable patch or laying down small bricks?”

She nods, gratitude oozing from every pore. Her voice drops, trembling a little. “I usually feed them whenever I can, but now, I don’t know how I’ll be able to manage.”

He sighs. He has never been good with children- or, at least, he thinks he hasn’t. Growing up an only child, he never had much experience with youths, only ever having worked with Huntsmen and students at Atlas Academy. Would he be able to help these kids, even for a little while?

 _My wallet can afford it,_ he thinks wryly. _I have more than enough, and will for my lifetime- maybe it’s a good idea._ He grins. _At the very least, I can get them to teach me what they’ve learned while helping others._

So, Clover grins, waving over the two kids. Surprised, they walk over, standing hand in hand as they watch him through doleful eyes.

“…How good are you two at weeding?”

Their faces light up, and Clover knows he has made the right choice.

With that, he makes arrangements for the children to leave town in the mornings on the early flight and return in the evenings. There are spare rooms in his home for any days that there are problems with transport, so he is not worried about housing them if need be, even if just for a little while; and as it is still morning, the children ask to come see his land, and Clover agrees. He would like to make some headway that day, after all, and six hands are better than two.

On the airship, he learns more about them. Their names are Nora Valkyrie and Lie Ren; they had found each other after their village to the north was attacked and destroyed by the Grimm. They are eleven and bright-eyed and eager, smarter than they appear and just as sweet. Clover watches their interactions fondly, for there is a sense of unity between these two- a cohesiveness in the way Nora flies off on wild tangents, all excitable, gangly limbs and breathtaking smiles and entropy, yet still always maintaining her orbit around Ren’s shyer, more thoughtful self. They are whole, together.

It is sweet. Clover envies them.

The children are a great help in unloading his crates of supplies, surprisingly strong despite their short statures. “Living on the road will do that to you,” Nora cries happily, flexing a thin arm with a devilish glint in her pale blue eyes.

Clover snorts and ruffles her orange-red hair, ignoring her pout in favour of biting back his own discomfort. _Of course they’re stronger than they appear,_ he thinks wearily. _If they travelled from a northern village here, to south-central Anima, all alone… then they have to be strong._

The Grimm would not have left two broken children alone, after all.

It hurts to dwell upon that anguish, so he simply sighs, waving the children along. He has a tour to give, after all.

There is a definitive sense of surprise as he explains how he has been setting up his lands. “You have all that space, and you’re not using it at _all?!_ ” Nora’s incredulity makes sense, but even Ren is shocked, eyes passing over his acres of fields that lay ravaged by nature.

Clover shrugs. “My goal isn’t to be a farmer, it’s just to live comfortably.”

“But-“

“But if you want me to use the land, I’ll need a bit of help,” he adds gently, tapping his leg. “I’ve got an injury, unfortunately.”

Ren’s eyes soften, magenta shimmering empathetically. “Was it the Grimm, Mr. Ebi?”

He gives the young boy a wan smile. “Yeah. Isn’t it always?”

The two children nod, but their expressions soften. He has been hurt by the creatures of Grimm, too. There is solidarity there.

As he shows them some of the areas he would like to clean up first, it is Ren who asks what the bricks and wood and mortar are all for. “You don’t seem to be building a shed,” he murmurs, tapping his cheek thoughtfully. “What’s it all for?”

Clover pauses. Is it okay to show them?

_Gods are meant to be prayed to, I suppose._

Quietly, he raises a finger to his lips. “Well, it’s actually for a god.”

Their eyes widen in disbelief, but as he beckons them to follow, curiosity and wonderment begin to fill their tiny, hopeful faces.

It is so endearing, the way they trail after him like ducklings, afraid to step out of line for fear of disturbing the forest- for even they, in all their youth and naivety and enthusiasm, can sense the magic lingering in the air from the moment they step past the treeline. Clover hobbles through the lawn of clover and dandelion hearts and mossy patches, waving the children along to the broken shrine atop the pedestal.

Clover brings out his trinket of the day- a small brooch. It reminds him too much of the brooch he had worn upon his chest day in, day out, back in the military; however, unlike his own emblem of a clover and horseshoe, this one is of a feather, curled almost like a quill, ready to be dipped into ink. He places it against the bowl as he kneels down, hand over his heart, murmuring, “I’ve brought you a little something. We’re going to get started on rebuilding this now, so please be patient with us. I also picked up some dried foods from town, so tonight, perhaps we can have dinner together?”

The wind rustles his hair and he smiles, standing creakily and waving the children over. They follow, timid and nervous- Ren murmurs, “Is this for the Great Brothers?”

Clover pats his head gently. “No, it’s for a lesser deity- one who protects this forest, and my home.”

“How did it protect your home? All your windows are smashed up!” Nora asks, genuinely confused.

He can only laugh, shaking his head. “I am safe, and nothing was destroyed beyond repair. My water and electricity still work. I have plenty of food, although others are suffering far more. I’m safe thanks to him,” he explains simply, looking up into the canopy above.

His words die in his throat for a moment as he finds red eyes watching him from the shadows, the corvid having appeared silently after their entrance.

Finally, Clover adds, “He’s protected me, whether he will admit it or not.”

“It’s a boy god?”

Despite himself, he feels himself flush, the memory of Qrow’s breathtaking form, as brilliant as the sun itself, seared forever in his memory. “…yes. A kind, benevolent man.”

“What does he rule?” Ren asks, approaching the pedestal. He crouches down, and Clover follows his line of sight to the two engraved flowers in front of the stone. “Plants?”

For a moment, Clover is ready to reply, for there is no point in lying to them- and yet, something stops him from saying the word _misfortune._ He has seen Qrow use the word disparagingly, regretfully, against himself time and time again. Clover does not want to see the god who has protected him, who has helped _heal_ him, do that to himself any longer.

So, quietly, Clover takes a seat beside the piles of splintered wood he had removed from the outcropping after the storm. “His name is Qrow,” he says gently, eyes fixated upon the corvid, trying to find the words to convey the magic he has seen Qrow perform. “He is a god of many, many things- plants and flowers blooming where they are planted, resilient and strong despite circumstance- of winds that can harm, but can also ease pain- of life carrying on, despite poor luck. He keeps these forests Grimm-free, keeping me- and now, you- safe.” His fingers stroke stems of wild violets and the leaves of curly docks absently, relishing in the touch.

Ren seems absolutely entranced as he takes this all in, eyes roving the rocky outcropping eagerly, as if waiting for a god to appear just like that. Nora, on the other hand, seems troubled, face twisted into a perpetual pout as she ponders what has been said, so starkly in contrast to the shabby, downtrodden appearance of the shrine itself. “You pray here?”

“Every evening, and sometimes mornings, too.”

“You eat dinner here?”

“No one likes eating alone. It’s just me out here, after all.”

“Does he join you?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

Then, out of the blue, she turns to Clover, cheeks ruddy. “I like this shrine,” the girl announces, all wide-eyed confidence and bluster. “It feels cozy.”

“Now, now,” Clover cautions her, “it’s not a thing to play with, you know. Gods aren’t meant to be taken lightly-“

He bites back his words as he sees the little boy shuffle forward, magenta gaze demure as he looks anxiously at the wooden structure. “May we pray here, too? Before we fix it up?” Ren asks, his accented voice barely a whisper.

Clover softens, bending down onto his good knee to meet the child eye-to-eye. “You may. I think he’d like that.”

The boy’s face breaks into a shy smile as he tugs the girl’s sleeve. “C’mon, Nora. You do it like this.” He demonstrates for the bubbly girl how to kneel down before the raised outcropping, placing his hand atop his heart and closing his eyes. Nora is quick to follow, her face brimming with barely-restrained excitement as she closes her eyes, only lightly bumping into Ren’s shoulder with her own as they sit in silence.

Clover watches it all fondly. They are old enough to understand the importance of the gods, but still too young to understand the truth of the Great Brothers above. Perhaps praying to Qrow is the best way to help them build faith early on, for his blessings upon Clover’s life have been bountiful, whether the god realizes it or not.

“Mr. Ebi,” Nora mumbles from her position before the shrine, “if you hang out with him, does that mean you’re friends with the god who lives here?”

“Mortals are not friends with gods,” he says, lifting his gaze. The crow watching him from the gabled rooftop averts red eyes away from his own. Clover shakes his head, smiling as he adds, “But if they were, I’d very much like to be his friend.”

Nora and Ren both beam at him as they climb back to their feet. “We’ll bring offerings too next time!” Ren says, bouncing on the balls of his feet, more excited than Clover has ever seen him. “What does this god like?”

Clover frowns, taking a moment to think on it. “He likes berries, and fruits, and trinkets. Little shiny things,” he adds with a wink when Nora frowns at him. “But I think he’d like it most if you came back.”

The crow’s beak opens, but no voice emerges, be it corvid or man; instead, the wind rushes stronger through the clearing, caressing Clover’s tanned, freckled cheeks with such tenderness that he wants to weep.

That evening, after the old wood is cleared out and a foundation of brick and mortar has been laid and the children are gone, Clover comes back with his dinner to lean against the pedestal and murmur to the waiting bird, “You have fans.”

“You are cursing them.”

“They will worship you, and you will protect them.”

There is an indignant rise in his voice as Qrow booms, “You will not tell me what-“

“-because they are children, and you are kind.” He looks up at the crow, holding out his hand. “I meant what I said today, you know. You say misfortune. I say blessings, life lessons.”

The crow alights upon his hand, his arm- and, after a moment’s hesitation, hunkers down upon his shoulder, nuzzling a soft, feathered head against Clover’s ear.

“…thank you, Clover,” the wind whispers.

“Thank _you_ , Qrow,” Clover replies, tucking into his dinner, turning his head up to look at the stars through the canopy’s breaks. They are beautiful, shimmering lights pinpricks in the darkness, just like the reflections in warm feathers curled against his neck. Clover’s leg does not ache that night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter feels clunky, but I'm posting it anyways. I'm too tired to properly fix it up so... oh well. Let me know what you think! ~~and if you can, oh generous soul, maybe drop some validation if you're reading along, I really need some rn~~

And so, life carries on.

When the first true autumnal rains fall, Clover is content. He has spent the past weeks rebuilding the little progress he had managed to achieve during the summer, slowly repairing the garden and patch so that they may survive the incoming winter. His own home has been repaired, the basement has been fully stocked for at least six months, and he is ready to see what winter on Anima looks like. Even in town, life finally finds an equilibrium once more, a sense of normalcy re-established after weeks of hard work and communities coming together. It is a beautiful thing.

Clover adores seeing the rebuilt farmer’s market finishing their sales of the season. It feels incredible to be a part of something again. He had almost forgotten how good it felt to _belong._

It is not due to his hard work alone, however. It is a blessing to have the children around. Nora and Ren are terrifyingly speedy in their work ethic, able to accomplish tasks that would have taken his old subordinates far longer to do; there is an energy that thrums within them, keeping them lively and bright and ready to take on any challenge he can throw their way even amidst pouring rain or sweltering sunlight.

The gardens and the house are not the only things their skilled touch is able to help fix. With their help, the shrine is built anew, the structure upon that rocky outcropping completely different than before. With a strong, solid layer of brick and mortar at the base, wooden beams have been reinforced and tiled, shingles fending off the rain, protecting the offering bowl which now contains more nuts than fresh berries due to the turn in the season. It looks almost like a veritable shrine and less like something hobbled together by an inexperienced hand like Clover. If he had been a weary traveller, Clover could imagine resting by the outcropping after praying to the deity within for protection throughout the night; he could believe that it truly did belong to a god.

The little splashes of paint Nora have added to the rooftop- vibrant reds and oranges which clash terribly with grey tiles and the somber clearing- do a little bit to take away from that effect, though. He doesn’t have the heart to stop her; she had been far too excited to ‘make it pretty’ that he couldn’t refuse, since it is only due to their able hands and nimble fingers and surprisingly-strong forms that he has been able to rebuild Qrow’s home at all.

However, it would be a lie to say that he feels any animosity towards their childishness, for after months of solitude, their smiles help heal his heart, too. The farm had been so empty for so long, he had forgotten what it was like to live with other people. Still, with them here, there is a magic in the air which lingers, a brightness that fills the house each time they work too late to return to town.

He hates how much his smile falters when he waves goodbye to the airship that takes them back home. The room he has given to the two children feel far too empty when they’re not there.

“You sure you don’t want us to stay full-time over the winter months, Clover?” Nora wheedles him for the nth time one day as they nail down a tarp with long stakes. “We could help with all your snow-shoveling needs!”

He laughs, shaking his head. “I’ve got to keep in shape, even with the leg,” he reminds her yet again, ruffling her hair. “You’ll be more useful in the bakery in the winter months.”

“But-“

“But nothing,” he say smoothly, wincing as he stands. The clouds are rolling in, slowly but surely; with their final tasks of the day done, however, he feels more than happy to call it a day. “Shall we eat dinner?”

“Let’s go see Qrow!” Ren calls sweetly, a smidge of dirt on his cheek as he sticks his head out from the shed where he had been organizing tools and waterproofing the structure.

Clover chuckles as he waves them both to the house to wash up, for the lilt in Ren’s voice warms his heart more than anything else ever could. The children have grown fascinated by the shrine; although Qrow never flies down to meet them, always staying hidden in the trees above, after weeks of bringing the children to see him and pray to him, Clover knows that the god wants to appear before them, too.

After all, each night after the children leave, Clover goes to visit Qrow. The conversation is always the same. “They will love you,” he always says.

Qrow always shakes his head, hopping away slightly on talons and anxiety. “I do not wish to harm them.”

“You won’t.”

The crow always gives up, always gives in- always moves to Clover’s side, his shoulder, his lap. The god has grown used to his touch. “You do not know what I am capable of,” is always the sad, weary response. He does not fly away, though. That is a start.

Yet, Clover’s heart aches each time. Qrow is right- Clover _doesn’t_ know. He’s just a mortal.

But even a mortal can tell that the corvid always looks so excited from its perch in the trees whenever the children come to pray. Clover has long since given up trying to convince them to act appropriately at the shrine, for the moment they finish with their silent prayers, Nora launches into long-winding, nonsensical retellings of their day, leaving Ren to add flourishes here and there as they sit and eat food in front of the pedestal. It is such an odd image, to see a veritable picnic one might see at a family outing taking place before the home of a god; and yet, Clover does not stop them.

Qrow hasn’t looked as lonely since the children have come, after all. Weeks of watching the god carefully have confirmed it. He has been happier since Ren and Nora have come to his little farm.

“I’m sorry they’re so… rambunctious,” Clover comments one evening, lying back upon the field of weeds, staring up at stars just barely visible as the sun sets behind the horizon. “I know they’re a big change-“

He closes his eyes immediately as the clearing begins to shine, the grass by Clover’s side shifting under the weight of the ethereal man who Clover has only seen for a few moments before. “I don’t mind them,” the god admits after a moment. “…I like children.”

That admission steals Clover’s breath away. It is the first time Qrow has ever admitted to liking something, well and truly, beyond offerings and trinkets- but the grief layered underneath that hoarse, melancholic, resonant voice is enough to break his heart.

_…I wonder if gods can have children, too._

Clover hopes not. He does not know how much heartbreak Qrow’s misfortune would cause a child. He is not sure if he wants to know.

And yet, it seems he does not need to ask. After a few minutes of peaceful silence, Qrow begins to speak, low baritone unusually flat, controlled. “Do you know where lesser deities come from, Clover?”

“No,” the man admits easily, eyes still closed. “We were always taught to focus on the Great Brothers.”

“For good reason,” Qrow hums. “After all, they are the only true gods of this world.”

Clover frowns, sitting up halfway on his elbows. “But- what are you, then?”

He can hear the weary, nostalgic smile upon thin lips as Qrow replies, “I’m just a man who was offered immortality when I was weak. So, I took it.”

That idea chills Clover to the bone. That cannot be the answer; Clover has read fable after fable, myth after myth, about the dangers of immortality and the fruitless search for it within the pools of life hidden inside the God of Light’s realm. And yet, there is no lie in Qrow’s words. “I- what happened, if I may ask?”

He feels the body shift next to him, the light shining behind his eyelids growing even brighter; through his closed lids, he can see that the god has rolled over onto his side, crimson now watching Clover as the god lays in the brambles with him.

It is still absolutely surreal to be this close to a god. _But… wait, what_ is _he, if not a ‘true god’?_

Qrow begins to speak, sensing his bafflement. “Long ago, I used to be a warrior. What you’d… what you’d call a ‘Huntsman’.”

Clover’s heart skips a beat. Qrow had been just like him? Since when? What had happened?

“I was just a man. A foolish, weary man who thought he could save the world.”

“You were… you were human?” Clover breathes, absolutely captivated. And yet, there is a tinge of horror creeping into his voice which he cannot control. What would immortality feel like to a Huntsman, to someone who had dedicated their entire life to a cause knowing fully that their own life may be cut short in return?

“I was.”

Clover does not want immortality. It sounds painfully lonely. He has already suffered enough of that.

Clover’s chest begins to ache terribly, rivalling the throbbing of his leg. Clearing his throat, he murmurs, “Did… did you have children?”

He can sense the tangible grief in the air, can feel the wilting of the plants underneath him, as Qrow’s voice grows thick with emotion which Clover has yet to hear from the god. “No. I had nieces, though.”

“…What happened?”

Qrow snorts, a sigh slipping past his lips, still somehow sounding musical despite clearly working up to being distraught. “…they died. My best friend- my brother- died. All before their time.” He reaches up to the stars, long fingers shining even through to Clover’s closed eyes, glittering more than any starlight could ever hope to match.

He wants to ask for details. He does not. “The Great Brothers found you in your grief?”

“I wanted to die. There was no reason for my scythe to exist if I couldn’t keep my little girls, my brother, safe. They thought I would serve better living for combat rather than living for people, I suppose.”

Clover flinches, recoiling at the surprising amount of venom in Qrow’s tone. “Did they promise you something in return for fighting Grimm forever?”

Qrow pauses, then sighs- in a heartbeat, the light is gone, and Clover feels a weigh land upon his chest as he lies back down. Opening his eyes, he sees the corvid’s beak open, Qrow’s voice hanging heavily upon a brisk, stiff wind. “They promised me peace. But that was a long, long time ago- many lifetimes. I’ve… I’ve lost count, to be honest.”

The unspoken words lingering in the air are tragic, pathetic. _I haven’t found that peace yet._

So, Clover sits up, slowly wrapping his arms around the corvid, holding the creature against his built chest. He cannot offer what this deity seeks. He cannot heal the wounds which clearly time has not been able to soothe.

However, just as Qrow’s wind can take away the sting in his own leg, he hopes that his warmth can do _something_ for the god. Qrow does not deserve to grieve forever. That is a fate far too cruel.

“I’m going to bring the children here tomorrow,” he murmurs, cradling the creature tightly, “and I hope that you’ll meet them. They love you, you know. You should meet them before the snow sets in and they cannot come here anymore.”

The bird does not move away, allowing Clover to hold it close. He does not know what else to say, so he simply sits there in the clearing, feeling the warmth in his arms ease the ache in his bones, in his own heart. He does not know if his words reach the god.

The next day, however, he gets his response. And, just as predicted, the children adore the crow who speaks to them on the wind for just a moment before flying off again. The sight of it makes Clover smile, a sense of excited anticipation bubbling up in his chest.

He cannot wait for when the spring comes. He shall bring the children here again. Qrow shall not be alone any longer.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a minute, but here's the next chapter. Let me know what you think!

He has never truly heard the sounds of the battle waged nightly in his home until the snows fall.

The snow here is different than in Solitas, he is quick to realize once the autumn finally wanes. There is a stickiness, a humidity which permeates the air and the earth even though crystals fall from the sky; it is not the dry, humourless powder which constantly assaults the northern continent. For the first time in months, when he sees the snow fall upon his little farm, Clover finds himself missing Atlas. The biting cold of his homeland was sharp and brisk, nipping at his nose and destroying his sense of safety, for those trapped alone on the tundra of Solitas would find no respite from the elements; but that was a demon with which he was comfortable. He was trained to survive in Atlesian ice storms.

In contrast, this land’s chill is an insidious one, seeping into his bones and lingering there, the cold, icy damp finding every nook and cranny in his home and his soul to sit and fester whilst he shivers under dozens of layers. Yet, no matter how many sweaters he piles on, no matter how many logs he burns, he still feels cold.

At least the children had been smart enough to warn him to cut wood. Thanks to their ushering, he has prepared more than enough fuel to keep his hearth ablaze throughout these months should his Dust-fueled heat generator fail. He is grateful for that warmth. _And the two of them will be well-fed by the baker,_ he thinks gratefully as he looks out into the garden, so much more tidy thanks to four tiny helping hands. _I can’t wait to welcome them back._

He hesitates to say ‘welcome home’ to them, even in his thoughts. He does not know why. Maybe he simply hopes that they shall say it first; he has never been good with children, but Ren and Nora are ones he shall gladly keep by his side as long as he can. Upon their last farewell as they had boarded the airship before the storms had begun, he had joked that he could not wait to be rid of them, to which Nora had quipped and Ren had laughed in that quiet, shy way of his; the words unspoken had announced the truth, after all. The house is far too empty without their footsteps and laughter, and when spring arrives, he shall welcome them back happily.

Clover cannot help but worry about the shrine during this change in seasons. The first morning he awakens to fields of pure, untouched white surrounding his little home, his mind immediately runs to Qrow. Will the rooftop collapse under the weight of the snow? Will the land in the clearing grow barren? Will animals try to defile it or nest within it now that it has grown too cold for their regular burrows? These worries are over-the-top and he knows it, for he is confident in the stability of the structure they have built with brick and mortar and love, and he knows that nothing would dare touch the abode of a deity, even one as unknown as Qrow; his heart still fears, though.

That is what initially prompts him one particularly cold even to go out into the snow in the evening, to go out and search for Qrow. He has not seen the god, neither as a bird nor in his true form, lingering around the shrine as of late. It is clear that the offerings are being taken up- each day, they disappear, after all- but no longer is it practical for him to expect a dinner companion each evening. The snow is simply too cold to spend time in for too long, even when he goes out during the warmest period of the day.

That day, he had not gone out to see the deity, however. A call from an old comrade in Mantle had taken up his lunch hour, and after that disruption to his schedule, he has not yet found a chance until nightfall to truly seek out the god. He knows Qrow will not be upset, but the fact that he has not yet been able to verify whether the deity took the previous day’s offerings bothers him. He worries for the crow god.

So once his nightly routine is almost finished, he opens up one of the higher cellar cabinets, too far up for Nora and Ren’s reach. From within, he withdraws a small bottle of whisky; he does not drink often, but his grandfather had amassed quite a collection, and Clover is more than happy to take a glass and bottle out to the god as one might when praying to the Great Brothers. The deities love spirits, after all. Perhaps this shall keep Qrow warm.

The moment he steps outside his front door after nightfall, however, Clover regrets not leaving sooner. The chill immediately sinks through the lining of his high boots as his feet sink into the snow, his body recoiling, yearning immediately to return indoors. He regrets returning his bivouac gear when he left the military; they had issued him more than enough gear to allow him to survive the cold outside, but-

 _No,_ he thinks wearily, _I wouldn’t be able to camp outside anyways._ The dull ache in his knee begins to outright _throb_ in the midst of the snow _,_ the pain enough to make him tremble as he fights to retain his balance. It happens every single time he goes out to the shrine around midday, and every single journey leaves him feeling embittered and defeated. If he cannot even walk for long periods of time in this, how can he possibly spend time with Qrow?

Suddenly, he perks up, shuffling back inside the house the best he can. It does not take him long to find what he needs- a long, tall wooden cane, carved of the same oaken wood which grows plentiful in the forests. He remembers this cane in the hands of his grandfather, just barely; it had always been leaning against a table or the armchair in which the elderly man had sat whenever Clover had come to see him as a child. His fingers trace along the grains in the wood, the light sensation sending shivers up his spine.

An errant thought causes him to almost drop the cane after a moment, leaving him wanting to hide away the support. It is a small thought, creeping slow, malevolent; he is not an old man who can no longer walk straight, and the sense of shame which plunges across his shoulders at his clear disability is a cold shower of frustration which douses him from head to toe. He is too young to need a cane, isn’t he?

Then, he stops, looking back at the piece thoughtfully. The cane is still beautiful. He does not harbour any ill will towards it- there are only positive memories associated with the cadence of its weight upon hardwood. What shame is there in using something that can help him traverse the cold, especially if he is still able-bodied for the rest of the year?

He feels a little silly as the initial wave of anxiety and shame subsides. This piece had supported his grandfather, and now, it shall support him. The ghost of the man who had always welcomed him home lingers on here. There is no weakness in that. _I guess I’ve not completely given up the Atlesian mindset,_ he thinks wryly, gripping tighter onto the wooden support. _I need to let it go. This is my place now._

So, with this cane in hand, he bundles up yet again and pulls on his boots over four pairs of socks, finally braving the wintry chill.

The cane helps. It provides him that balance and stability which he has so sorely been lacking the entire week; a part of him cannot help but blush at his own folly and stubbornness, for he should have realized this was an option days earlier. He weaves his way through thick, wet embankments of snow, making slow but steady progress around the farmhouse, alongside the garden, until he reaches the trees. The Dust lamps which light up the exterior of his home are able to light up the entire area, unlike during the rest of the year; with golden-yellow light gently reflecting off the snow, gone is the darkness which had once plagued the area beyond his four walls. When accompanied with the moonlight, the entire field seems to glow for him tonight, guiding him home.

However, that soft, tender light does not reach the treeline. He gulps, pulling out his Scroll clumsily with thick gloves, flicking on the flashlight as he begins to stumble through the forest. He only hopes he does not fall; a night out here would do him serious harm, and he is not in the mood for dealing with further injuries today.

The clearing is empty. He is unsurprised; he does not know where Qrow sleeps, but he only hopes that it is safer than here, where the bird would be exposed to the elements.

Before he can turn around and leave, his shoulders hunched disappointedly and his body weary from even just the brief moment in the snow, he pauses, hearing a rustle in the bushes. He immediately grimaces, for his hand flies to his hip, only to find that it is painfully bare of Kingfisher’s presence; he can do naught but watch, slowly backpedaling towards his home, as he awaits to see what shall emerge from the bushes behind Qrow’s shrine.

Nothing could have ever prepared Clover for what actually steps out into the moonlight filtering through the leaves and into the clearing.

He is stricken. The monster reveals itself bit by bit, each inch exposed by the moonlight another year shaved off Clover’s life. Eventually, it emerges completely, dark, rippling flesh and dripping fangs and blood-stained claws crunching through layers of ice and snow all fading away in favour of focusing upon the glowing, orange-red eyes which burn within deep, sunken-in eyes, the bone-white mask covering the creature’s face deathly pale, almost ethereally so, when surrounded by snow.

_A Beowolf._

The next three heartbeats knock Clover off his feet and onto his bottom, his body wincing and protesting at the movement and sudden chill, the snow deep enough to plunge his hands wrist-deep as he tries to cushion his fall. He barely even notices the pain, however, for in those scant seconds, three things happens so quickly he cannot process it all: two more Beowolves step out into the clearing, their fangs bared and claws waiting, the giant, hulking creatures of Grimm ready to pounce on his unarmed and very anxious self; the wind stirs suddenly, the moon illuminating the night sky suddenly clear as the breeze parts the canopy of trees above-

And a glow begins to overtake the skies for a split-second before a dark silhouette appears, instilling more unabashed dread within Clover’s bones than he has ever felt before in his _life._ This glow is not white, heavenly; this glow is blood-red, tinging the air with the scent of death and decay, so prominent that Clover’s numb nose can smell it instantly.

The shape is familiar, though. Clover has seen it time and time again out of the corner of his eye, or glowing from behind his eyelids. He has felt this figure’s presence so often since coming to Anima that his heart longs to draw closer, but his mind immediately screams that he needs to _run._

After all, he knows Qrow’s silhouette perfectly.

He does _not_ know the giant, blood-stained scythe trailing through the air from Qrow’s hands, so long that Clover cannot even fathom wielding it himself.

It is an icon of pure destruction, leaving red afterimages in the sky, contrasting horrifyingly against the bloodstained moon. For a moment, Clover wants to cry out in shock- then, he remembers what Qrow had told him about Qrow’s duties as a god.

It is but a second, and the deed is done. The glimmering blade swings in a powerful arc, and a strike of pure power and crimson magic rains down, slicing the three monsters creeping closer towards Clover in twain so brutally, yet cleanly, that Clover gags, rolling onto his knees to upheave the contents of his stomach into the snow. The heat melts the thin layers of crystalline white, turning the pool in front of him into mush and mud and vomit that, when combined with the scent of rancid flesh left behind from the dissipating bodies of the Grimm, only makes him nauseous further.

When Clover is finally able to look up, he catches but a glimpse of red eyes staring down at the earth; there is no warmth, no kindness in those eyes. There is naught but quiet, restrained anger, a hint of disgust and a bitterness lodged within. Those eyes reflect the bloodstains upon the scythe twirled around in his hands, his intense presence forcing the trees themselves to cower in the otherwise-silent night.

_He truly is a reaper of the Grimm._

And then, those red eyes turn to look at Clover, and Clover screams.

Those seconds, those heartbeats, pass. He is suddenly upon his feet, scrambling despite the screaming pain in his knee, wincing and limping and gasping for air as he desperately fights his way over to the opposite end of the clearing. Those eyes wanted to _kill-_

“Clover!”

He freezes, that one word settling over him like an iron grip, seizing his muscles. He drops the cane in pain, collapsing once again to his knees, whimpering as he feels the bodies of the Grimm and their predatory aura vanishing, the stronger force between them lingering on. He says nothing in response, though. He cannot speak- he can only look down at the snow where he has fallen, praying that the scythe in Qrow’s hands shall stay away from him forever.

To his surprise, Qrow does not chase him, does not give pursuit. Instead, Clover trembles as Qrow’s projected light grows white once again, entering the clearing, illuminating the tiny, snow-blanketed world. This glow is gentle, kind; it is what Clover knows, what he has grown to adore over the past few months living in Anima quietly by his lonesome.

And yet, there is no warmth in his heart as he feels the god approach him, the light growing stronger and stronger until Clover trembles not from the cold, but from the presence of a creature whose blade was long enough to cleave a man in two effortlessly. A crunch of snow alerts him of the deity taking a seat in the snow. It is only then that Clover finally whispers, “Thank you for saving me. I’m sorry for not coming earlier today.”

He hates how weak his voice sounds, how cowed he must look. He does not know what else to do, though; the image of Qrow as a vehicle to hunt Grimm had never been as visceral when it had been mere knowledge. Now, however, Clover wonders how he shall sleep that night, a blood-red sky forever engrained behind his eyelids.

“Were you not a Huntsman yourself, Clover?”

Wincing, he nods, for he knows what Qrow asks. “It has been almost seven months since I have seen the Grimm,” he breathes. “I… I suppose I’ve grown weak.” _I’m just a civilian now, I guess,_ he adds silently.

Qrow does not respond. Clumsily, Clover removes the small bottle and glass from one of his large, downy pockets, holding it out in offering. “I wanted to bring this to you. For today. I didn’t know there would be Grimm, though.”

“No,” Qrow says quietly. “Do not offer me spirits.”

Clover frowns, tilting his eyes curiously up at the glowing figure. Now that the clearing is truly filled with white light, with no more hints of the bloody red which had elicited so much horror from him, Clover’s heart has begun to settle down. He just needs to breathe.

Biting his lip, he settles his sights on a nearby tree, on watching how the light from Qrow’s godly figure reflects off the smooth planes of thick, untouched layers of snow resting upon the branches, the textured trunk collecting pockets of damp white, the thin icicles beginning to form at the tips of each branch translucent, caught glittering between melting and clinging onto the tree.

After a moment of this silence, filled with nothing but Clover’s ragged, strained breaths, Qrow finally explains, “When I was a mortal, I drank too much. I know that gods usually appreciate liquor as their gift. I do not.”

“Oh,” Clover replies, his mind racing. Qrow had been a human so long before; for him to still harbour such ill will towards alcohol, for him to turn down what is often prized as one of the finest offerings a god can experience… “Alright. I won’t bring it again. Would you like something else?”

Qrow pauses, and Clover can feel the wind rustle through the leaves as the deity takes in a sharp inhale before sighing, exhausted. “I… are you not frightened of me, Clover?”

Immediately, the man winces, for the mere thought of Qrow’s bloody blade is enough to send shivers down his spine. He has always known that Qrow was a god, but to see him as the _reaper_ he claims to be…

He simply hopes to never have to see that image again. “I… I am,” he admits at last, recoiling at the shame which floods his voice. _Shame. That’s a good word for it._

Better yet, though, would be _regret._ He has never heard Qrow’s voice be so regretful, that heartbroken tone mirrored within Clover’s own heart.

“Then why do you not run?” Even as a whisper on the icy breeze, Clover can hear the pain, the frustration.

“Well, you protected me.” He smiles, patting his knee, trying to muster up his usual, cavalier, jovial tone with the god. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to fight off those Grimm alone. Turns out I’m not so good with the cold these days after all.” The admission stings, but Clover chokes it out anyways, for he needs Qrow to _know_. “I’m sorry for turning away. I just… I wasn’t expecting it.”

To his surprise, the light from Qrow’s deistic form fades away, leaving behind only the light of his Scroll lingering faintly from his pocket. However, that light is more than enough to see the black mass which flings itself at him, prompting him to drop the cane in favour of holding the bird in his arms. “Qrow, are you okay?”

The god does not respond, merely tucking its beak inside Clover’s hood, faint breaths tickling Clover’s ear. It trembles, be it from the cold or from his own heartache, Clover does not know; however, when the god’s voice echoes through the trees, murmuring, “Humans are different now, it seems,” all Clover can do is shudder and bite back his own shocked cries.

How many had seen Qrow cull Grimm for their sakes?

And, of those, how many had rejected Qrow for the reaper he has become in return for his immortality? How many had rejected Qrow after he had saved them, just as Clover may have, had he not fallen?

So, Clover does the only thing he can think of: he wraps the corvid up in his coat, buttons it up, and makes the long stumbling trek back through thick snowbanks to his home, where he can defrost frozen feathers and provide the god some respite. He does not know if he shall be struck down for daring to do such a thing, but the shrine is cold, and Qrow is weary, and Clover’s knee aches from winter’s sting, so he does so anyways.

And when he awakens the next day curled up in the armchair by his fireplace, he finds that the corvid is gone, but the fire is stoked and the house is warmer than it has been in days, and he is content. After all, the image in his dreams had not been of a reaper silhouetted by the moon; he had seen thin lips curving into a smile, crimson eyes flashing with warmth, as his beautiful god had welcomed Clover back to his side.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one for this fic at last. If you have anything you want to see in this fic in particular, now is the time to let me know, because it's winding down, believe it or not!

The murmurs of increasing Grimm upon Solitas morph, turning from quiet, under-the-table reports from his old subordinates to the murmurs he hears from the occasional traveler who braves the winter snows of Anima. At first, Clover looks forward to those visits from passersby, happy to offer food and shelter for a little while to help them on their way; however, as more and more strangers bring news of the rising shadows haunting Solitas, he finds that his heart begins to sink every single time he sees a silhouette walking upon the horizon.

The location of these Grimm sightings crosses the northern ocean after weeks of the same story. They land upon the shores of Argus, apparently, moving further and further south- further and further inland, threatening to encroach upon Clover’s newfound peace. Whether or not these sightings are merely rumour is yet to be seen. He prays it is so- not for himself, but for Qrow, for the deity deserves to have some bit of respite amidst his constant heartache and battle.

At least Qrow does not report an increase in Grimm sightings himself. When Clover asks, the deity murmurs without pause, “Even if there is a change in their ranks, I shall strike them down anyways.” He speaks with such conviction, such absolute certainty that only a god of chance could carry, that Clover believes him without fail. It is reassuring to note that Qrow has at least one thing in which he shall always bear good luck.

Or perhaps it is just skill. Clover does not bother to doubt. As long as Qrow is safe, it does not matter.

Kingfisher continues to gather dust upon his wall. While Clover is thankful for Qrow’s protection from whatever tides may be changing in the shadowy battle ravaging the world, each time his subordinates call him, he cannot help but have to stop what he is doing and put down his Scroll, hanging his head low, focusing on naught but his breath as his words empty, his heart stopping, his chest simultaneously so hollow and so filled with emotion that he cannot think.

Guilt is the name of this emotion- shame, its constant companion. He knows they do not belong in his heart, for he has done nothing to warrant such suffering, and yet he cannot say no to it.

The one thing he can say with utmost confidence is that he is grateful to have built the shrine. From the night he had seen Qrow fight onwards, he has gone out to the shrine before sundown each day to pray, to give offerings and thanks, and to open his arms. Most days, those arms remain empty, and he simply murmurs, “Goodnight, Qrow,” to the deity’s corvid form before picking up his cane and hobbling back to the farmhouse. Every once in a while, though, when the air seems to stir in particularly turbulent vortices, threatening to knock the world off-kilter completely, and not even the tiny clearing is safe from the violence of these increasingly-aggressive snowstorms and thunderstorms which haunt them all, Qrow takes Clover up on his offer of warmth and safety.

There is a tiny nest built of fabric and shredded paper, of stuffing and leaves, which sits in the living room now. There is nothing sweeter in the world than seeing Qrow fly over to it in crow form after Clover closes the door behind them- at least, nothing sweeter other than having Qrow stay in his arms as he falls asleep in his armchair under layers of blankets. The deity is never there when he awakens, although the remnants of his presence- a roaring hearth, more blankets, an opened window- always linger behind.

These nights always leave Clover wondering briefly whether the companionship had been naught but a fantasy; oftentimes he wonders whether he should photograph Qrow with his Scroll, but he does not wish to upset the deity. It feels disingenuous to capture the bird’s image whilst he is sleeping, and Clover is far too shy to ask for permission during the day, so his memories shall have to do.

Sometimes when he sleeps, however, he can feel fingers intertwining with his, the wind stirring to caress his face despite the windows all being shut. He wishes he could see the deity’s human form when he does this, for one question haunts Clover each morning when Clover awakens alone yet again:

With what eyes does Qrow look at him?

He is not so haughty to dare to ask, however, so that question remains unanswered, and Clover contents himself to merely enjoying the breathtaking view of the winter months.

There is only so much of stillness which he can take. Boredom is the mother of ingenuity, and soon, he finds himself clearing out one of the spare rooms upstairs; he converts it, slowly but surely, into a miniature gym. It is nothing like the high-end equipment he had utilized throughout his military career, but makeshift weights and supplies are created thanks to the plentiful supplies around the house, and soon, Clover feels some of his strength returning. Even his left leg no longer pains him as much, only truly hurting on particularly cold nights when the chill pervades the world beyond what blankets and fires can stop.

The pain never lasts long, nor uninterrupted. Every time he mentions the ache to Qrow, the wind blows and the pain ceases, if but for a moment. Clover is grateful for that.

However, one can only be alone for most of the day for so long before the madness begins to set in. He falls out of discipline with his early rising, finding himself crawling out of bed by noon more often than not. It is difficult to tell the hour with the skies almost-eternally overcast and grey. This lack of a concrete cycle digs itself into his skull, hooking painful claws of madness into his heart, for Clover has never lived alone for so long before, and the distinct lack of his Atlesian colleagues has never been more apparent; he finds himself speaking out to the empty air constantly, chattering about the news or the weather, about plants he wishes to try raising and that which he needs to avoid, about the animals which he really needs to drive off his tiny property and back into the fields if he is going to have a chance at growing certain things. He really, truly would like to grow strawberries in the upcoming summer, but if he does not find a solution for the slug problem, that’ll be but a far-off dream forever.

He wonders whether Qrow likes strawberries. He hopes so.

The winter can only last for so long, but Clover is utterly unprepared for the ferocity with which the seasons change. In Solitas, the shift between winter to spring is slow, creeping- a gradual augmentation in temperature that never truly becomes warm, for after the ice comes the sleet and the storms, and the permafrost lingers forever to keep the world freezing as it should.

As it turns out, though, much like everything else in Anima, life is different here.

Clover walks outside one morning (or just past midday, if he is to be honest with his terrible schedule) only to find three decidedly surprising things which shock him so completely that he is stunned in his tracks:

First off, there is simply no more snow. As if it has evaporated into non-existence, the ground is barren, the trees no longer sporting any white filigree atop their skeletal arms. The only remnants of the ice and snow which have covered the land for months on end is the delicate trim of white which lingers upon the side of his rooftop not yet exposed to the sunlight, the steady _drip, drip, drip_ echoing numbly through the air as melted snow plops onto cracked concrete and brick.

Second, the air is _warm-_ not hot, not fresh, but warm indeed. The humidity cannot be understated, although he does understand why it is suddenly so difficult to breathe upon stepping past his front door. Thanks to the rapid thawing of the area, each breath is thick, heavy.

And thirdly, the shape of an airship at the stop down the road rises into the air, disappearing quickly behind cloud. It leaves behind two silhouettes sprinting towards the farm at full speed, high-pitched yelps and cheers echoing in the air.

Clover will later not admit that he weeps when Nora and Ren launch themselves into his arms, knocking him off-balance and sending him crashing onto his bottom. They all know, though.

And just like that, life feels _whole_ again.

The children are delighted to see the bird’s nest built inside Clover’s home. “Did Qrow really come and stay with you?” Nora squeals, eyes wide in amazement.

“Gods don’t do that, unless you’re special, right Clover?” Ren adds, just as intrigued.

Clover chuckles as he watches them settle back into his home so effortlessly it is like they had never left; he pauses, taking a moment to simply savour the presence of the children. Nora has grown taller; she is now bigger than Ren, a fact that will likely change in the coming years. Her lanky limbs are barely covered by sleeves and pants which are now just a hair too short for her, so he makes the silent note to buy her more clothing the next time they go to town. Ren, on the other hand, is not very different physically, but his accent has changed. The changes are subtle, but the rhythm and intonation of his voice could have placed him as being from outer Mistral, rather than the surrounding independent villages from which he originally hails. Soon enough, the boy may begin to sound almost native to Vale, should he spend enough time with Nora.

He does not comment on these changes, instead simply raising a brow. “I hope you’re ready to get back to work,” he murmurs, ruffling their hair in tandem.

Their smiles shine, and his heart is warm.

Qrow is just as delighted that the children have returned, although he will not admit it, much like Clover. The deity squawks excitedly when the children’s voices ring through the air as the trio makes their way to the shrine that evening, dinner in hand. Ren has taken on the task of bringing over the offerings for Qrow, the young boy’s expression sage and stern as he sets the bowl down underneath the covered shrine.

On the other end of the spectrum, Nora quickly pops onto her knees, brings her hand up to her heart, and drops it just as quickly, clearly just going through the motions in order to do what she really wants- looking through the canopy for Qrow. “Qrow, we’re back!” she calls excitedly, waving to the trees. “We missed you!”

The bird does not show itself, much to her chagrin. Clover laughs as he and Ren calm her down, urging her to eat nicely after they have given their silent personal prayers and thanks towards the deity who protects them from harm. After the children have gone to bed that night, however, Clover ambles back over to the shrine in the darkness, using his Scroll to light his way; there, he is greeted by a god who simply murmurs, “Close your eyes.”

Obediently, Clover does, sitting carefully upon the grass, soft clover and broadleaf plantain cushioning him. Immediately, he freezes as hair as soft as wing feathers brush against his neck, the deity’s human head leaning into the crook of Clover’s shoulder. The sensation is foreign and electrifying, the magic that dances and exudes from Qrow’s form overtaking Clover’s in a heartbeat; Clover can only stop in his tracks, for the humanity of the god has never been clearer, nor has he ever touched Clover like this in his true form. Even through his closed eyelids, he can make out the shape of Qrow’s dark, silky hair falling upon his shoulder, of lashes that seem more like a wash of colour than individual strands upon the deity’s closed eyes.

Embarrassment floods through his body from head to toe as heat takes over, filling up his core. When was the last time he had felt this kind of touch from another? Since when has he not felt genuine _warmth_ like this, a body nestled against his side belonging to someone other than the children?

His heart is a battering ram in his chest, the fervour and want almost painful. Now, more so than ever, he wishes he could see the god properly, for the desire to truly hold Qrow has never taken hold of him so fiercely before.

He wants to, though. Brothers, how he wants to.

Quietly, he murmurs, “The children missed you.”

Qrow replies, his voice both booming on the wind flying through the rustling canopy above and caressing his ear like the gentlest whispering breeze, “It shall be livelier with them here once again.”

“I hope you do not mind.”

“…I do not.”

“I’m glad.” He means it, with all his heart.

It is once he is tucked into his own bed that night that he allows himself to close his eyes and imagine the dream which his heart and mind have been so desperately trying to conjure as it scrabbles for bits and pieces of Qrow’s image. In his dreams, he imagines the children helping him on the farm; he imagines trips to town, buying supplies and trinkets and watching them laugh as he sells his earnings; he imagines coming back to the farm, packing everything away, making dinner.

He imagines going out with them to the shrine, only to see a god in the shape of a handsome man awaiting them. In his dreams, he knows he can see Qrow- even if it is not an accurate portrayal of the beauty which must follow the god’s every plane. That breathtaking splendour is not what matters, though; what matters is that in his dreams, they all eat together, and they laugh, and there is no more of this distance between them.

When he awakens the next morning, he does not remember all the details. He does, however, remember the single wish that remains in his heart. That wish in itself is terrifying; after all, there is no way for it to become true, nor is there any way for him to justify the impropriety of that desire which seeps through every fiber of his being. He is just a mortal. He does not have the right to long for such things.

Yet, he prays silently to the Brothers for the first time since his arrival to Anima anyways that he may one day eat with Qrow and the children together. As a family. At the very least, he prays to dream of it once again, so that at least in his most vulnerable moments, he may taste the joy of his heart being completed by the god’s smile at last.


	11. Chapter 11

The rumours continue to circulate of increased Grimm activity covering their world, only increasing now that the winter season has left so suddenly. The route back to the village is open once again, the trade routes and airships now carrying passengers all around the rural landscape, breathing fresh life into the formerly-isolated farm. These Grimm sightings worry Clover to no end; while he knows Qrow will keep him safe, his trust within the deity having become so intimate and so _true_ over the past few lonely months, he fears for the town. Do they have enough Huntsmen to protect them? Their borders lie beyond Qrow’s usual reach, but he does not want them to suffer; the villagers have been nothing but kind to him.

The thought is strange. A year ago, he had thought he would never find a place to be. It is reassuring to see that belonging can come in many forms- but also a little terrifying, too. He does not wish to lose anyone else, but now, his allies are no longer soldiers who can defend themselves.

People are fragile. He knows it better than anyone, although he tries to forget that fact.

As he looks at his reflection in the mirror one morning, the fact that he truly has changed thanks to the town’s influence- thanks to this _life’s_ influence- is more pronounced than ever. No longer is he the pristine, composed leader of the Ace Operatives. The light smattering of freckles across his nose has become a mainstay upon now deeply-tanned skin, his eyes looking brighter and more open than they ever had in Atlas. His lips are always a little chapped, but he does not mind, for he cannot help but adore the sun which has learned to kiss his skin gently rather than burning him from the get-go. He is smaller now, more spindly, more wiry; his strength remains, however, and he is able to accomplish everything he needs to- carrying supplies, chopping firewood, scooping up Nora when she decides to bother wildlife out of her insatiable curiosity- with enough ease that he does not miss the bulk of his days as a soldier. He has traded his uniform for worn cotton and waders and sunhats, and he finds that he does not regret a thing.

It is absolutely baffling to think that he has been in this area for almost a full year now, but with the children laughing downstairs as they try their best to make breakfast for the trio, it is undoubtedly his home.

The farmers market reopens now that spring is taking over the countryside, their late winter crops lining the stalls. The baker ushers him over the first weekend it opens, smacking him lovingly on the shoulder, a sense of familiarity and affection in her eyes that one might reserve for a nephew. “The children wouldn’t stop worrying about you all winter,” she says quietly as Nora runs off to play with the baker’s younger children, dragging a hapless Ren behind her. “I’m glad to see you’re doing well.”

“I couldn’t stop thinking about them either,” he admits. “Thank you for taking care of them.”

“Thank _you,_ ” she replies easily, “for letting me have one winter with these brats before you take them away from me forever. I’m fond of ‘em, shenanigans and all.” Her expression sours slightly. “Nora will eat me outta house ‘n home, though. Good riddance, them staying with you from now on will save me more lien than you can imagine.”

He blinks at her in shock, but the warm-hearted permission in her eyes makes his knees weak. Perhaps he will not be so lonely next winter. Perhaps it will be warmer with the children in the house, too.

It is not just kind words which she offers him, as it turns out. With the days growing warmer, she clears a little space at the edge of her stall. “Once you’ve got something to sell, come over here!” she announces. “With your berries and my bread, we’ll sell out yet.”

And just like that, Clover _knows_ that he belongs here, and he cannot help but wait in eager anticipation to see what grows first upon his lands.

To his surprise, it is not fruits or vegetables which flourish first within his garden, but the daffodils. At first, he does not recognize the bulbs which Nora had insisted on planting months before; their tiny stems grow stealthily, only truly becoming visible to Clover’s eye once they are almost six inches tall, for he had no idea that they would bloom so early.

And yet, as the weeks of spring solidify the season with its cool, yet devastating rainfalls and breezy sunny days, the earth begins to truly feel warm underneath Clover’s feet, running through his fingertips as he weeds and tills and sows. Nora and Ren help him plant summer blossoms and fruits and vegetables with gusto, their excitement for the upcoming summer months on the farm infectious and giddying in their vibrancy.

When the daffodils finally bloom, it is incredible. At first, he only spots a lick of yellow out of the corner of his eye, and it takes him a moment to actually process what in the world it may be; however, upon second glance, his breath catches in his throat, his heart soaring through the heavens as he kneels down carefully in the shade covering his house-side garden, taking a look at the living artifact he himself has cultivated.

This flower is utterly different from the images he has seen of them in books and upon his Scroll. Before he can stop himself, he reaches down, brushing the earth; it is still frigid in the wake of winter, so different from the soil he had tilled in the summer heat almost a year earlier. Running his fingers up the stem of this singular blossom, he carefully brushes against the petals themselves, taking it in with bated breath. The yellow petals are delicate, unfurling so softly that he is scared the merest touch of his own callused fingertips will break them; each petal curls slightly, crimped and ruffled edges of the fluted trumpet’s bell in the center pointing proudly towards the sky. He is speechless as he looks at the numerous other daffodils ready to bloom at a moment’s notice, their green prisons almost broken through, the buds already having yellow peeking through each of the casings.

It is beautiful. It is _theirs._

He cheerfully waves Nora over when she finishes watering the vegetable patch. The girl is absolutely ecstatic, announcing immediately, “I’m going to give this to Qrow!” before rushing to the shed for a pair of shears. Clover can only laugh, left behind in the trail of the dust always remaining in her wake.

And so, their offering that evening consists of some winter pear from the farmer’s market alongside their very first daffodil, cut and cared for lovingly by Nora. “Thanks for melting all the snow and giving us spring!” she says happily when she kneels to pray. “It’s so much nicer to be here than in town.”

“Nora,” Ren murmurs, fighting back his own laugh for he has long-since given up on reminding Nora to speak properly to this deity, “he’s not the god of the seasons, you know.”

Pouting, Nora shrugs, looking back over her shoulder to Clover. “Yeah, but Clover said he’s responsible for _all sorts_ of good things here and he protects us, so why wouldn’t he help bring spring faster?”

Clover bites his tongue to prevent the scolding which longs to spill from his lips, for Nora’s impertinence would be harrowing in the shrine of another god; Qrow, however, adores the children, and Clover knows there are no worries to be had. He’ll still remind her of proper etiquette later, though. For now, however, he simply guides them to place the offerings upright and says, “The flowers are coming back. It’s really hard to imagine that they were able to make it through even though the ground is still fairly frozen in the shade of the garden.”

“Flowers prove that beautiful things can bloom even in shadow, right?” Ren says suddenly. Surprised, Clover raises a brow towards the young boy, who immediately blushes in response under the sudden scrutiny. “There were a lot of lotuses in my hometown’s waterways,” he explains, clearing his through and straightening up as if to recite something. “Mother always said that they grow out of mud, and their beauty is a hundred times more wonderful because they pushed through adversity.”

Clover is not blind to the way Nora’s brow creases, nor to how her hand immediately intertwines with Ren’s, squeezing gently without any of her usual exuberance.

Instantly, his heart aches for them. What horrors had they witnessed during the attack upon their home, before their long journey through Anima?

“Qrow will protect us,” he murmurs, stepping back from the shrine. The containers of food they have packed for dinner await them just a few feet away, after all. “And I always will, too.”

The two children smile, and although he wants to ask more about the story behind that immediate connection, behind the lotuses, behind the torrid details of their traumas, Clover knows it is not the time. They are young. They are not ready. And until they are, he shall be there for them.

Once the children have eaten and the sun has set, however, Clover finds that he cannot sleep. His brain runs in circles, mind screaming about too many things to settle down. His thoughts jump between Ren and Nora’s past- their hometown- the increase of Grimm- the safety of the village- Qrow-

His eyes fall upon Kingfisher, the weapon dusty and still, hanging untouched upon the wall. _Getting stronger again isn’t enough,_ he realizes faintly. _I need to train properly again._ After all, what if he is attacked? Even worse- what if the _children_ are attacked? What if Qrow isn’t there? What if something happens, and they’re overrun, and-

He needs to protect the children. He refuses to give them another story to grieve over, another story after which they need to cling onto one another as if they are the only ones left. He refuses to let himself be but a tragic chapter in their lives.

With this thought in mind, he goes out to see Qrow. He cannot sleep, and the god is better companionship than the deafening silence anyways; at least the wind whistling through the leafy canopy above can give him solace, even if the deity himself is not there. He uses his cane to hobble over more out of habit now than anything, and soon, he is seated upon the grass in front of the pedestal once again, looking up at the stars peeking through a ceiling of green.

Qrow alights on the grass in his corvid form, beak opening to murmur, “You appear troubled.”

“I can’t sleep,” Clover admits with a smile.

Qrow clucks and trills, then hops closer and closer until the bird sits upon Clover’s good knee. “Is it your injury?” the god asks.

He shakes his head. “It actually does not hurt as much as before- although, I suppose in a way, that is part of why I can’t sleep, yes.”

“What is plaguing you?”

Carefully, Clover explains the increased sightings of Grimm again to the deity. “In light of that,” he summarizes, “I’ve been thinking of training again.”

“Training?”

“I think I’m going to get back to combat training,” Clover says quietly. “It would do my body well to get back into shape- even if I can’t be exactly as strong as I was thanks to this.” As he pats his wounded knee, a wry smile on his face, he raises his chin to the sky, adding, “It’s probably going to be a good idea to begin carrying my weapon around with me, too, especially if-“

“You do not trust me.”

Clover freezes in place, trembling. There is no malice in those words; just cool, calm, weary acceptance. _W…what?_ Clumsily, he begins, “Qrow, that’s not true-“

“Then why do you wish to fight?” the god challenges, his voice booming through the clearing. Clover winces as the wind rushes through the air, stinging his eyes in its ferocity. “You have no need.”

Clover bows his head, heart pounding in his ears in fear and worry and discomfort as he feels waves of dissatisfaction rolling off of Qrow’s body. “I- my leg,” he stammers out. “I want to be as strong as I used to be, Qrow. I want to be ready just in case.”

“In case of what?” He can feel the chill in the air as Qrow’s voice drops down to a whisper. “In case I cannot help? Do you really think me so weak?”

 _No,_ Clover longs to cry out, _you’re wrong! If there’s really an increase in Grimm, it’s lonely fighting alone-_

“Why, then, does a mortal feel the need to try and fight alongside me? In case of my misfortune-“

“I do not want to be your burden,” Clover announces suddenly. He draws himself up proudly, chest puffed up. “I do not want to burden you with my safety when I can at least take care of myself somewhat. The children need someone they can see as a protector, too if need be, and-”

He cannot voice the words he wishes to say most of all though. They are too churlish in the face of a god, even one as loving as Qrow. _I do not want you to have to fight alone anymore._

His eyes are pressed closed, his hands clenched tightly into the fabric of his jeans, palms clammy and frigid. To his surprise, Qrow does not berate him, does not scream out about Clover’s insolence or disrespect. Instead, Qrow simply takes a pause; then, through Clover’s eyelids, he can see the brilliance of Qrow’s presence fill the clearing, the blurry outline of his human form just as tantalizing and breathtaking as ever.

A gentle touch pulls his hands away from his jeans, and Clover is struck with the urge to wipe them off first before Qrow touches his damp skin. He does not dare pull away, however, nor does Qrow seem to mind. With tender, careful fingers, Qrow squeezes his palms, his own fingers too cold and too hot all at once, smooth and callused, rough and gentle. “You are not a burden, Clover,” Qrow whispers, his voice entering Clover’s ear so faintly that it is almost drowned out by Clover’s own heartbeat.

Then, he is gone.

Clover is grateful for the fact that the children are asleep when he finally manages to totter back into the house, for his cheeks burn just as fiercely as his fingertips do, and Clover does not know what to do to calm his heart down. Even when morning comes, the sensation does not fade, Qrow’s caress engrained into his very pores for eternity; he cannot focus for the entire day, mind trapped in that one breath of time when Qrow had held his hands, his heart, with all the tenderness in the world.

He is only broken out of the fugue at the end of the day. “Clover, look!” Nora squeals excitedly when they arrive at the shrine that evening to pray and eat dinner together. She points at the outcropping, eyes sparkling in amazement; Ren’s eyes soon join hers, the young boy’s face lighting up just as much, if not even more, as he examines what has alerted her so.

Squatting carefully, Clover peers onto the outcropping. His heart pounds in his chest, vision wavering for a moment as he takes in the sight of the carvings upon the pedestal. Alongside the old images of a sunflower and clover, there is now a daffodil delicately intertwining its stem with the other two, a broad leaf from the flower drooping over elegantly to the side.

_You are not a burden._

With one hand, Clover traces the petals of the daffodil which Qrow has immortalized in stone, proof of their presence- of Clover’s presence. Of the winter they have survived. Of the spring that shall heat the earth and bring life back to the world.

He is not a burden.

And with the other hand, he wordlessly draws Ren against his chest in a hug, smiling wider as Nora weasels her way in as well. The winter is over, and the snow has melted, and the children are warm in his arms, and the daffodils have bloomed. Daffodils are so much more beautiful than he had thought they would be when he had first thought of them a year ago, it turns out. He cannot wait for the rest of them to bloom.


	12. Chapter 12

Clover is not broken.

This thought comes creeping in as spring turns into summer, bringing with it more than just daffodils; his flower patch flourishes far earlier than his fruits and vegetables do, the little plot pressed against the back of the farmhouse a mosaic of brilliant oranges and yellows, reds and lilacs, blues and greens.

The children are always there by his side, weeding and watering and aiding in his work. Their bare feet belong in the grass, always running amok whenever their duties for the day are done- and, more and more often, Clover joins them. His knee no longer hurts as terribly, for all of his exercise in his makeshift gym and in tending to the farm are more than enough to help him rebuild the muscle and strength he had lost in his left leg.

To his surprise, rather than the times spent in the garden with them, what he treasures even more are the times when he finds himself sitting at the dining room table with workbooks and writing supplies, guiding the children in learning to read and write. Their letters are shaky, but on sunny days and warm evenings, they move their lessons to the shrine, and Clover knows that Qrow enjoys seeing Nora and Ren learn and grow. They are fast learners, and Clover is more than happy to provide them what education he can. They deserve as much as he can give them, if not far more.

Clover enjoys teaching, he finds. It makes him feel as if all the skills and decorum he had learned to a militaristic perfection has not been for naught. Nora manages to properly write a letter for the first time in her life; it is addressed to the baker during a stormy week when they cannot go visit the village. When the older woman replies, Nora’s face lights up with a pride and a vibrancy that can outshine the sun itself, and Clover knows his time and efforts are worth it.

Clover is not broken. He truly is not, he begins to realize as he finds himself able to pick Ren’s sleeping form up without any difficulty one warm summer night. His knee does not pain him in the slightest as he squats beside the sleeping figure, for the boy has fallen asleep in the grass, his long, dark hair splayed around his head like water; Clover brushes it out of his eyes, a touch so tender that Ren instinctively curls closer to his protector, the novel he’s been slowly reading almost falling out of his hands.

Clover’s eyes linger for a moment upon the book, his heart clenching as he realizes the intrigue of the novel which Ren has read so intently that he has fallen asleep still clutching its pages; the story of children taken away from their families due to the Grimm should not resonate with any child so deeply, and yet, Clover knows that this story must be truer to Ren’s own experience than any fairy tale he could weave for the boy.

After all, he knows the truth now. The children had shared their story with him one tranquil morning over breakfast. The words had been so nonchalant, spoken through a mouthful of oatmeal and berries, that Clover had almost not registered their meaning, their intensity; looking back, Clover cannot even remember what had sparked the topic- something about teasing Nora for always eating as if his simple, often boring meals were the fruit of the gods themselves.

It had been naught but a joke, but he can still remember Nora’s eyes. “I didn’t have a home when I was littler,” Nora had said simply. “This food is really yummy. I used to eat whatever people threw into the trash. It was scary.”

And Ren had silently reached over to take Nora’s hand in his, a shame flickering in his eyes that spoke volumes of a burden which Clover could not even imagine. “I’m so-“

“And then the Grimm attacked the whole village,” she had continued, flashing Ren a sweet, understanding smile. “And Ren’s mom and dad tried saving him, but no one could get away from that monster.”

“The Nuckelavee,” Ren had whispered, brows drawing together. “It’s a terrible demon. It haunts the forests of Mistral.”

“But we made it out.”

“We made it out. Together.”

“You and me, right Ren? Forever.” And then, Nora had looked up at Clover and held her empty bowl up towards him using her free hand, her other still intertwining its fingers with Ren’s. “Can I have more oatmeal please?” she had cried brightly.

Clover had nodded that day and fed them both seconds, and then, once he had given them tasks for the day, he had gone to his room and tried to fight back the emotion welling up inside, choking him from the inside out, for they are both far too young to be able to speak of such horrors with such sobriety. They should not be able to bear that trauma.

And whatever guilt resides in Ren’s heart… he dreams of easing the little boy’s burdens. Whatever had happened in their home village is over. He wants this child to be free.

Ren’s heat lingers in Clover’s heart long after he has tucked the boy into bed beside an already-snoring Nora, placing his novel on the bedside table with care; before he leaves, he pulls Nora’s covers up to her chin, the action bringing a faint smile to unaware lips as the little girl slumbers.

This heat in his hands- it is strange. The weight which he carried so easily into the house- Ren’s weight- is nothing like what he had once known, for although he has begun training with Kingfisher again, no longer is his weapon an extension of his body. It is but a tool which he shall wield only when needed. His hands are meant to care for these little ones now, and as long as they are happy, he knows that his trials will have been worth it.

He is not broken, just different. Perhaps even better than before. He’d like to think so, even if his subordinates think otherwise. They are still haunted by increases in Grimm, after all.

…He doesn’t like to think of that part.

Despite his growing strength, his limp remains ever-so-slightly in his gait, growing prominent by nightfall each day. it is always the most visible each time they visit the shrine. He still relies on his grandfather’s cane, although he has needed to use it less and less heavily as the spring rains had waned, leaving behind more sure footing. The children barely notice either way, always so excited to perform their daily ritual of eating with Qrow; Ren brings flowers each time a new one blooms to show off their hard work. “Thank you for protecting us,” he says shyly each time before Nora bowls him over, the girl ready to launch into a summary of the day’s affairs for the hidden deity.

It is easier to bring the deity flowers rather than trinkets these days, for the crow’s hiding spot for the treasures Clover had brought him the previous summer is almost full, and the flowers can be immortalized in a different way.

After all, Qrow carves every single flower the children brings into the pedestal, proving to Ren and Nora that they, too, are treasured beyond this mortal plane.

“I hope we are not troubling you with these,” Clover murmurs one starry evening after the children have been put to sleep. Gone is the tulip which they had brought that day, and Clover has no doubts that by the next morning, they shall see yet another addition to the veritable bouquet decorating the floor of the shrine. He leans back against the stone outcropping, the chill from the rock sending a shiver down his spine. He does not mind that sensation, though; it is grounding. It is real.

The glow from Qrow’s humanoid form is the opposite, the glimmer of light at the edge of Clover’s vision an instinctive, silent command to close his eyes, to brace for the deity’s presence.

Just as expected, Qrow appears, his light illuminating the clearing. Clover shivers again, fingers clenching around fistfuls of white clover and dandelions, stirring the seed spores into the air. Through his closed eyelids, he watches the figure of the god land upon the soft grass, the wind rustling through the trees as he straightens to his full height; then, with footsteps both silent and deafening, the god walks close to Clover.

And then, without a word, he takes a seat next to the man, leaning back against the pedestal.

“They are like my nieces,” he whispers after a long, tranquil moment of stillness. “Their father- he loved gardening. Would always grow flowers, and the girls would bring me them whenever I saw them.” Clover can hear the smile on his lips as he adds, “I… am quite fond of flowers, because of that.”

“You didn’t live with them?”

He can sense Qrow shaking his head slowly. “I’ve always been unlucky. I would never want to bring that upon them.” After a moment’s hesitation, he adds, his voice trembling like a new leaf in the breeze, “I only hope my presence is not going to hurt your little ones, too.”

With his eyes still closed, Clover shifts his body to face Qrow- to have more access to the shrine. He silently moves his fingertips across the stone, the sensitive touch catching on the engravings carved time and time against into the flat outcropping, protected from the elements underneath the lip of the shrine; he traces images of lilac and lavender, chrysanthemum and rose, peony and poppy, heather and honeysuckle. He traces each line with trembling, tender care, for in each one of these markings, this god has immortalized the place in his heart which he has given to the two children who Clover now considers his own.

Once his touch finally reaches the oldest carving- the white clover, its tiny head of buds still so clear in Clover’s mind’s eye- he finally shakes his head, finally speaks. “You bring them joy in a way I don’t think anyone can,” he admits quietly. “Their happiness was thrown away by the gods. They’ve endured horrors to get here. I hope I can make them happy now, as long as I can, but they are never as bright as when they are with _you._ ”

Qrow does not respond to these words, but Clover can see the glowing shape moving towards his hand upon the rock- can feel callused, smooth fingertips tracing the veins along back of his own hand, and his heart swells and his body aches and he _yearns_ to turn his palm upwards, to lace his fingers with Qrow’s the way Ren and Nora are able to do with one another so effortlessly. He longs for that innocent touch.

It is not innocent in reality, though. He knows that. He also knows just how impudent he would be to voice these desires; so, he keeps them locked away in his heart, contenting himself to being explored by the god until the deity himself decides to leave.

This kind of exchange happens throughout the summer, Clover’s yearning for the god only growing more and more prominent in his heart. He can never act on it, but he dreams.

One sunny day in the tail end of the season, he goes into town on his own while the children work, much to Nora’s chagrin; however, that animosity fades away the moment he returns, carrying a large cake and a plethora of new clothes and toys and books for the duo. “The baker told me it was your birthday,” he explains as they marvel at the delicate frosting on the treat.

Shockingly, Nora shakes her head. “It’s not our birthday,” she replies softly. “It’s just-“

“The attack was two years ago,” Ren replies. “We don’t remember our own birthdays.”

Clover freezes, eyes wide, knife paused in midair before he can cut into the cake. “You two- _you-_ “

Nora’s smile is far too sweet for the topic. “It basically _is_ my birthday, though,” she giggles. “I wasn’t really _me_ until I met you, Ren!” And without missing a beat, Nora grabs a fistful of cake and slams it straight into Ren’s face, cackling at the boy’s shell-shocked expression before helping him wipe it off.

Their resilience is inspiring, almost terrifyingly so. He hopes he appears as strong to them.

That evening, they bring a slice of cake for the god. “I think we’ll celebrate on this date from now on,” he whispers to the shrine as the children set up their dinner on the grass, just as usual. “They do not know their birthdays, but…”

_Every child should know that the fact that they were born into this world is something to celebrate._

The wind rushes past him, stirring the canopy above in a frenzy; then, he feels a touch on his forehead, the air curling into his ear, whispering, “We shall watch over them together.”

He turns on the spot. His heart thuds almost painfully in his chest as he watches the crow land on Ren’s shoulder, then onto the ground between them, cawing loudly. At first, the duo are shocked; as Qrow’s voice booms through the air in tandem with the crow’s open beak, however, their eyes light up, their amazement unrestrained as Qrow calls, “Your flowers are beautiful, children.”

That night, Clover’s cheeks ache from smiling, having spent the entire evening watch Qrow hopping onto their laps and trilling as it brushes its beak through their hair. Nora and Ren delight in Qrow’s appearance, their joy unabashed and brilliant. And, from that day onwards, Qrow appears fairly often at their dinners, stealing food off the children’s plates and allowing them to brush its feathers gently, much to their delight. Clover never hesitates to thank Qrow for these tiny moments, for he knows that Qrow’s presence does something which Clover can never do for the children: give them hope that the gods shall not abandon them again. Watching their interactions is enough to patch up the broken shards of Clover’s faith once and for all, too.

It is once the fall harvest is underway, with Clover’s weekend booth in the farmer’s market finding much success and the children’s bellies full with the fruits of their labour, that Qrow finally announces the truth; that he, too, has noticed Clover’s growth, Clover’s change, Clover’s _wholeness._

Unlike Clover, however, Qrow does not view this change with joy.

“You are leaving soon.”

Clover’s breath catches in his throat, his entire body recoiling on reflex. There is no acid in Qrow’s words; there is naught but bitter resignation. “What- what do you mean?”

“You are strong,” the crow says, leaning its head against Clover’s stomach as it settles down on his thigh. “You are healed, almost.”

He splutters, “I still feel pain in my knee-“

“You carry the children with ease. They do not need to help you with building things anymore, with carrying supplies. You no longer use your cane.” The deity pauses, the air trembling as if Qrow has just taken in a shuddering breath. “Your face is no longer haunted by shadows of the north. Thus, you are healed.”

Clover freezes, his mind racing as he takes in those words. It is true, he realizes dimly. When was the last time he had found himself feeling loneliness? Isolation? Bitterness? Since when had he not woken up each morning only to feel his heart sink to the floor the moment he realized he was in Anima and not Atlas?

Since when has he started moving forward in this rural little community, rather than clinging onto the titles and honours he had been forced to leave behind?

He cannot remember. That is more shocking than anything, so much so that tears well up in his eyes, doubling him in two; he presses his forehead against carved stone, the chilly touch both sobering and gutting, for he is not dreaming. He has not been dreaming this whole time.

He is _not broken._ Even a god has said so.

Tears spill down onto his cheeks. He does not bother to wipe them away, for they cool the mild stinging of his sun-kissed cheeks.

However, Qrow’s tone does not share any of his wonder nor relief. “You are leaving here soon, then.”

Clover raises his head, baffled. “Why would I leave? Where would I go?”

“Back to the north,” Qrow replies. “Is that not your home?”

The realization is striking, but true. _He is lonely. He is scared of being alone again._

Tentatively, Clover gathers the bird up in his arms, curling over to place a kiss upon the bristles on its head. “This is my home now, Qrow,” he whispers. “Thank you for making me feel like I belong here.”

His eyes snap shut as the god’s light bursts into the clearing, the weight in his arms suddenly increasing, filling out, the space in front of him suddenly occupied by a strong, lean body that smells like the freshest breeze, carrying the faintest scent of cinnamon and earth and damp cedar; the body shifts until Qrow kneels before Clover, his godly voice turning into that of the man for whom Clover _longs_.

He feels the god kiss his sweat-streaked, dirty hair with so much tenderness that the tears appear anew. “If I have done that, then I am the one who is thankful,” Qrow whispers.

Clover is not broken. He has a god who believes in him, after all.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're back! If you're still reading along, let me know in the comments! Curious to see who's still here.
> 
> Also, I just started a silly little fancast, **The Good Beans** , where I ramble about media that makes me happy. Check out episode 1 [here!](https://anchor.fm/faulty-paragon/episodes/The-Good-Beans-Episode-1---Kingdom-Hearts-2-Eternal-Summer-Vacation-enjorh)

Qrow’s kiss sears itself into his scalp, engrained in his sensory memory; it is his trophy, one which he wears on his sleeve proudly without a name, one which he carries in his heart with more pride than he has ever felt in the world. After all, he- Clover Ebi, veteran soldier, clumsy farmer- has made a _god_ feel at ease, has brought a _deity_ peace.

He is but a mortal, and yet, his recovery and his fortitude are stronger than ever thanks to the companionship gifted to him by his protector in the forest.

…so why does he feel more tired than ever before?

The end of summer months come and go, the harvest flourishing far more than the year prior; he is able to actually build up a bit of wealth thanks to his sales and barters at the market, promising silently to invest in things the children can use for their stay with him. As the leaves begin to fall properly, he packs up his tiny stall at the corner of the baker’s stand; the people of the village say their goodbyes and good lucks, secretly gifting him tools and supplies and clothes for the two extra bodies he shall need to keep warm once the route to the village closes amidst the snowstorms.

He has yet to formally tell them about his desires to make this place their _home._ Day by day, the desire to let those words spill from his lips grows ever-stronger; more than once, he awakens in the middle of the night from nightmares, seeing the children leaving and never returning to the farmhouse ever again. It breaks his heart each time, sending him into a dizzying frenzy that can only be cured by a visit to their room, the sight of their peaceful, contentedly-sleeping forms the only thing which can set his heart at ease.

With the harvest coming to a close and the winter months threatening to rear their heads once more, Clover gathers up his courage, sits the children down at the dining table, and finally, truly asks the question.

To his surprise, it is the quiet Ren that cries, clinging onto him silently with a face full of embarrassed, flustered snot. His wails echo throughout the house, the sobs ringing with such force that that night during dinner outside, Qrow refuses to move from Ren’s lap, far too worried about the puffiness around the boy’s eyes to leave him alone.

In contrast, whilst the normally-restrained Ren cries, Nora does not respond. Her smile simply remains as bright as ever as she nods, grinning with her usual fervor. That night, however, Clover awakens to a tiny, skinny body crawling into his bed, clutching onto him with a kind of desperation he has never seen before. He is content to hold Nora close; he wants her to understand that this is not charity, nor is it a lie. He will not let her go as long as she wants to stay with him.

The house is warmer with the three of them, after all. Each night, when he tucks them into their beds, the kisses they press onto his cheeks fills him with a kind of warmth that requires no firewood to kindle.

 _This is what it feels like to be a parent,_ he thinks in awe each time. He quite likes it. He had never intended to be a parent, but the thought of being able to call Nora and Ren _his_ fills him with more pride than any medal from the Atlesian forces ever could.

Qrow, for one, is happy. “If you continue to have aches, the children can help keep your home warm,” he murmurs one evening after Nora and Ren have been tucked in. “You do not have to worry about clearing the snow with them here.”

“I’m more worried about learning how to bake solstice pies than about clearing the snow,” Clover admits lightly. “Nora has been bugging me to make them, but I’ve never done it.” In response to Qrow’s confusion, he simply explains, “I was in the military. Mess hall food was always provided, so I’m still not the most incredible chef.”

Qrow’s laughter is as tender as always as he comprehends Clover’s teasing tone, his comfortable demeanor. “I’m sure the townsfolk will help.”

Brushing his fingertips tenderly across the top of Qrow’s feathered head, Clover hums, “Indeed. I shall ask when we go down there the last time this season.”

However, when Clover comes back to the village to tell the baker the good news of the children’s acceptance, she is strangely less ecstatic than he would have expected. At first, he wonders whether this lethargy comes from the fact that she has given up the children at last- or perhaps it is the chill from the incoming winter nipping at their heels, sapping away their strength. He can feel it too as of late, causing his knee to ache more noticeably than it has in months.

Yet, as he leaves, he realizes that he too feels similarly to the fatigue she had projected earlier that day. There is a heaviness in his steps, one which he cannot attribute to the colder weather nor the sadness of saying goodbye for now. Even Nora and Ren begin to show signs of this lethargy as the weeks turn the skies more and more grey. He blames the lack of sunlight. In northern parts of Solitas, there are two months each year without sunlight; two months of pure darkness at the top of the world, two months of solitude and eternal night. Clover has experienced the same kind of fatigue when stationed up in those quadrants, so he brushes off the concerns, simply supplementing their diets with some vitamin D and moving on.

It doesn’t really help, though. He tries to ignore it. It is… surprisingly easy to brush it aside.

One clear week, when the weather is strangely rain-free and the airships offer a special service run to those who live farther out of the main hub, Clover leaps at the offer to go into town and restock. At first, he only hopes to buy some sweets and preserves for the children; their mood has been falling as of late, with little to do now that the garden and vegetable patch have been covered and prepped for the incoming snows.

Once he arrives there, however, he realizes the opportunity to pick up some bread from the baker, so he changes his course, planning out in his mind exactly what pastries might lighten the children’s mood. Perhaps they will find their energy if they eat her turnovers-

He is not greeted with the smiles he would expect from seeing a good friend after weeks apart. The older woman leans stout elbows onto the counter, head in her hands as two other villagers stand somberly on the other side of it. The distinct feeling of defeat lingers in the air, nearly palpable, engrained into each weary wrinkle, each haggard sigh. He approaches them with caution after giving Nora and Ren a few lien with which they can use in town. “What’s the matter, everyone?” he asks tentatively after exchanging greetings and quick, measured embraces.

The baker groans, gesturing him close so that their voices can be low, muted. “Soldiers are in town,” she murmurs. “They’ve been arriving more and more as of late; I just don’t get why!”

“They’re taking over half of the inn at this rate,” the innkeeper’s husband mutters bitterly, running callused fingers through greying hair. “It’s not like we have any need to worry about conflict here, but-“

The baker slaps the back of the man’s hand lightly, scolding him without hesitation. “It doesn’t matter if there’s fighting or not here! We get supplies from the capital- what’s going to happen if an actual war erupts?!”

The baker’s eldest son steps out of the kitchen, his sweat-streaked cheeks dusted with flour, the sight a stark contrast to the grim set of his jaw. “What’ll happen if the CCTS is hit, Momma?”

Clover immediately shakes his head, trying his best to put on a smile despite the wave of information crashing over him. “They won’t attack the CCTS, son,” he says. “They’ll disrupt even their own communications. Worldwide. There’s no one who would benefit from that.” Turning to the baker, he drops his voice to a whisper. “It’s Mistralian troops in the inn?”

Somber nods.

His voice grows thick and heavy in his throat, fingers gripping the edge of the counter that the backs of his sunspot-covered hands grow pale and taut under his freckles. “You… do you know who the instigator is?”

A flash of fear mingling with guilt spreads across everyone’s faces as they look at Clover. “The rumours say it’s Atlas, boy.”

He shudders, quietly pointing at the loaves and pastries he would like to buy for Ren and Nora. “I’ll… I’ll see what I can learn,” he promises through gritted teeth. “I’m going to try.”

The baker steps around the counter, reaching up to wrap her arms around his broad shoulders gently, drawing her in as if he were a child. “We know you will, Clover,” she whispers in his ear. “You’re a good’un. Be careful, okay?”

Withdrawing slowly, he tries his best to smile at her despite how sickly, how unsteady, he feels suddenly on his feet.

The townsfolk do not begrudge his quietude for the rest of the day, and thankfully, Nora and Ren do not ask; they give him the space he needs to process what he has learned whilst they go to play with the baker’s children, relishing in the companionship of others for the first time in weeks. Their delighted giggles fill the air, offsetting the edge of unease growing rapidly in Clover’s heart. What in the world can he possibly do to keep them all safe?

He does not want to lose this fragile peace he has finally found. He _can’t_ lose it- not again.

 _Ask,_ he thinks to himself. _I’ve no right to know, but… I can ask what’s going on, at least._

So, he does. That evening, he tucks the exhausted, sleepy children into bed then calls his former subordinates for the first time in _months,_ practically begging for an update. The sound of his fingers drumming against the kitchen table sears itself into his skull, echoing numbly in the otherwise-silent room; however, each person who picks up his calls responds with the same thing. “It’s classified, sir,” they all say. “We can’t share information.”

It is only when he manages to get a hold of his former second-in-command that he is able to glean even a hairsbreadth more of information. “I cannot say, sir. You know that,” Harriet Bree says crisply, her voice just as flat and professional as ever over the Scroll.

He is about to hang up in defeat when she suddenly adds, “It’s a Code 62 Yellow. You know I’m not allowed to share details. Goodnight.” And she hangs up.

He does not know whether to laugh or cry at this sudden piece of information, for she is correct- he _does_ know what that code means. That code number is all it takes to paint the perfect picture for Clover, for he has been away from the Atlesian military for almost a year and a half, but it shall take far longer than that to forget exactly what those words mean.

There is an impending assault being planned. Something is going to happen.

 _And I can’t even get more details,_ he thinks faintly, feeling almost dizzy after understanding just how severe the situation truly is. _I’ve lost my badge and my ID number- I can’t access records at all, I-_

He cannot do anything. He is helpless. All he can do is hope with all his heart that the battle does not make its way down to him, just when he has finally felt settled into his new life.

 _Maybe I asked for too much,_ he thinks wearily as he crawls into bed, a wave of fatigued, bitter apathy washing over him. _This is what I deserve… maybe._

It is only when the sun is high in the sky the next day that Clover realizes the grave sin he has committed. He allows the children to sleep in, stumbling outside as fast as he can on his own in the chilly air, hair unkempt and eyes puffy and red from sleeplessness. In one hand, he carries a hastily thrown-together basket of offerings, silently praying, _Please let this be enough- I was so distracted yesterday that I forgot to bring them outside here- what have I done?_

“I am so sorry,” Clover rushes out, bowing his head in shame and placing his hand over his heart, begging for forgiveness. He places the offering upon the shrine and falls to his knees with far more force than what is ideal, his haste blinding him from his usual cautiousness. Pain shoots up his left leg, but he pays it no mind. “Qrow, I do not know what happened- I hope you’re alright, that you’ll forgive me.”

It usually takes longer for the god’s presence to become noticeable; however, in the wake of Clover’s clear distress, he barely gets a moment to breathe before light floods into the clearing, the flapping of wings shifting to footsteps as light as a feather upon the clover and grasses. “You look distressed,” Qrow murmurs. “What happened?”

“I- I don’t know. I’m sorry for not coming last night,” he says, shame filling him from head to toe. What kind of worshipper is he to have _forgotten_ to come to see Qrow?

Qrow lets out a long, slow breath. Then, ruefully, _painfully,_ he whispers, “I thought… you had left. Returned to your… original home.”

The guilt burdening his heart is a heavy one. He knows what it feels like to be alone; he cannot even imagine the solitude suffered by the god before Clover had built the shrine. While Clover had indeed suffered after his injury, it must be even worse for Qrow, for he and the children are this deity’s sole companions; Clover has always prided himself on never missing a day’s visit out to the forest clearing. How could he ever have left Qrow _alone_ again, even for one day?

“Are… are you alright, Clover?” Qrow breathes, his tender touch tracing Clover’s cheek with the strength of the softest breezes. “You seem pale. Unwell.”

His heart immediately softens. What great thing had he done in his previous life to have earned such clear care and devotion from a _deity_ such as Qrow? “I’m fine, Qrow,” he murmurs, bowing his head farther in thanks to the god before him. A part of him wonders momentarily whether he should bring up the upcoming war, this great battle looming ominously upon the horizon. Would it do any good to inform Qrow of a conflict which may never even arrive on their shores, let alone find them in the heart of rural southern Anima, far away from Atlesian forces?

 _No,_ he decides at last. _I do not want to worry him._

He does not need to be able to see the god to sense the way the air shifts, the quirk of the illusion of lips, the relief palpable in Qrow’s very presence. “That is good to hear,” he murmurs, his touch lingering upon Clover’s skin. “I am content.”

And so, the day passes uneventfully. The children cry their apologies to Qrow for having forgotten to eat dinner outside the night before, and god forgives them with all the love in the world. That evening, they dine together and laugh as if nothing strange had even passed.

However, although it is entirely unintentional, and almost unnoticed… that strange, flat night becomes the first night of _many_ when Clover does not go out to the shrine to pray.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all y'all celebrating either a festive holiday or just a day off from work :D enjoy the a n g s t
> 
> Let me know what you think of this update!

He cannot process what is happening. Nothing makes sense; the juxtaposition of what he had expected to come through his front door and what is actually there, what is actually standing in his dining room, is too much to comprehend. Quietly, the coherent part of his brain is thankful for the fact that the children are already in bed, leaving him to deal with this unexpected guest with the clarity and honesty that it deserves.

…he does not know if he is up to the task either way, unfortunately. His brain has been in a fog as of late. This was not part of his evening plans, and every fiber of his being struggles to maintain his poise as he stands here, vulnerable and on-display for a world he had left behind.

He does not know how to smile at Harriet Bree, his former second-in-command, as she crosses her arms and glares at him from across the room. Her mouth is twisted into a frustrated grimace, eyes darting around his living room and kitchen with naught but pure, unadulterated judgement and disappointment in her eyes before returning to him over and over again; it is as if with every new speck of dirt, every new rustic detail she finds, she comes back to him, her furrowed brow only growing more tightly knitted as if to say, “Really? _This_ is what you’ve become?”

He knows. He is not an Atlesian man- not anymore.

However, even her disgust has to come to an end one day. The short, stocky woman sighs, uncrossing her arms and walking over to the window of the farmhouse. Her steel-toed boots echo ominously upon the creaking floorboards, the sounds swallowed up by a million and one drafty nooks for which Clover has never really felt shame until now. “You should get out of here soon,” she says lowly, evenly. “I heard you were settled down here. I wasn’t expecting _this-_ “ and she gestures blandly at the dull, worn wood of his home which seems even greyer thanks to the dull, cloud-covered autumn skies, “-when I had heard you settled down in Anima, but you need to leave if you want to be safe.”

“And go where, Bree?” he asks plainly, taking a seat at the dining table. His head throbs as he instinctively tries to feign some level of stern taciturnity, but he has long ago forgotten how to wear those masks. The children feel far more comfortable when he is honest, after all, and all Qrow has ever wanted from him was his companionship, his unadulterated faith. “This is-“

“I don’t care where,” she responds crisply, her monotone projecting every bit the Atlesian soldier he no longer is. “Go to Menagerie if that’s where you choose. As long as it’s not _here._ ”

“Why?”

Her somber gaze stands out far too much in the shadows, her warm umber skin seeming chestnut due to the lack of light in his kitchen. “You can’t stay here, sir.”

Clover holds up a hand, massaging his temples for a moment as he processes this information. _The townsfolk were right to fear,_ he thinks distantly. _They were right all along._ “There… there really is a war coming, huh?”

There is a sense of disbelief, quickly swallowed up and replaced by irritation, all visible in the set of Harriet’s jaw, the furrow of her thin brows. “I thought I told you. Do you have any idea how that could have been interpreted if the monitors had caught the fact that I had dropped the classification number over an unsecured line? They would’ve thought-“ Her voice rises with each word, anger blazing in her bright, large eyes, every fiber of her being standing on end in pure, bitter frustration as she looks at him. “I risked _everything_ saying that, and now I’m risking it all by dropping by _here_ when I’m supposed to be heading south _,_ and you’re still _doubting me_?!”

“Bree…” He lets out a long, weary sigh. “I… I know. And I appreciate it. I know you can’t tell me why this is happening-“

“Finally, some sense,” she snarls, crossing her arms against her chest.

“-but you know that I trust you.” He attempts to flash her a kind smile, although even he knows it probably does not look genuine. It is hard to be amicable after finding out that one’s home shall likely be turned into a battlefield. “But… wow. The war really is coming.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, then walks over to the dining table, yanking out a chair forcefully and sitting down. There is a part of him that watches the action in amusement; she had always been highly professional back when he was still in Atlas, so to see her acting with such unrestrained confidence- one might even call her rude, in her complete disregard for him- is almost refreshing, comforting. It takes a lot for an Atlesian soldier to let their guard down- an Ace Operative, even more so.

Harriet Bree still trusts him, too, it seems.

He wonders idly whether that means she still respects him, though. Based on how judgementally she is acting, however, he cannot help but wonder whether she has ever truly respected him at all.

“Either come join us again, or disappear, Clover,” she says dully. Her anger simmers down, leaving behind naught but quiet, embittered exhaustion. “You don’t have a choice.”

“I do,” he replies instantly. “This is my home, and I’ll stay here. Besides,” and he moves his legs so that they stick out to the side underneath the table, resting in her view, “I’m still not fit to go back onto the battlefield.”

“Atlas is your home.”

“I quite like the seasons down here, actually.”

Her nostrils flare, the side of her mouth curling as if she has bitten into something sour. Her eyes are deadened, weary, as she gestures around to his home, utterly unimpressed. “It’s not much, you know.”

He shrugs, a sense of calm washing over him once again. “It’s more than Atlas ever was.”

That frank phrase not only takes Harriet aback, but also surprises Clover, too. There is a kind of conviction there which he had not been intending- a strength of will, a resolute, unwavering honesty which emanates from his words with such force that even he, the unwitting speaker, cannot deny a word. He means it. Anima is home.

“And this life is better than everything you’ve built?” She stands again, her anger mounting once more. “What is it, _Clover_? What is so good that you won’t let it go-“

 _No more ‘sir’, huh?_ Clover stands, wincing as his knees protest the sudden movement. Leaning upon the table, he says firmly, “You say this, but I am _not_ a soldier anymore. I can’t be one. Atlas told me that clear as day-“

“Then why stay here in the path of fire?” She snorts without a lick of amusement. “What’s keeping you here? Is it those brats-”

The way she spits that word with disdain is what does it; he lunges forward, fury pulsing through his veins with an intensity he has not felt in _months,_ causing his head to spin, heartrate to skyrocket, breath growing ragged and hoarse as he growls, “They are _mine_ , Harriet, and I am _not leaving my home again._ ”

She steps back, eyes wide, startled. He can only watch her, lost for words; just as quickly as his own irritation had peaked, hers fades, leaving them both clumsy and mute as they try to make sense of this strange, uneasy shifting dynamic between them.

This young woman had been his right hand in Atlas. They have fought countless battles, guarding each other’s backs. They have never let one another down-

But during those months in the hospital, Clover realizes in painful, visceral horror, she never visited once. She had simply been given the promotion to fill the void he had left, and she had moved onwards whilst he had been stuck there- stuck for so long, so deep within in suffering, that it had taken a deity and two children to snap him out of his longing for his old way of life.

Atlas was his past. Anima is where he belongs now. His skin is covered in too many freckles, hands too rough and callused from building and gardening, heart too softened by the warmth surrounding him, to go back north now.

She chews her lip, then slips past him. “I’m going to check your place out until my ride arrives,” she says quietly, clearly just as exhausted by this brief encounter as he. “I… just cool your head down. You look like you’re going to collapse.” Under her breath, she adds just loud enough for him to barely hear, “I guess farm life is pretty dull, if me being here will give you a heart attack.”

“…fine.” With that, he collapses back onto his chair, burying his face in his hands as the front door creaks open then shut. “Not like there’s much to explore anyways-“

Suddenly, his skin grows cold, clammy, heart draining of energy as he realizes what he has done in his folly. _I didn’t tell her to be mindful of the shrine-_

But why should he? He sinks into his seat, looking up out the window. She is a grown woman who is long-accustomed to offering prayers to the Brothers, so why should he bother feeling worried about how she interacts with the shrine? She knows better than to disrespect a god, even if it is a deity whom she does not entirely know.

However, this strange sense of worry and fear does not abate, and within a few minutes, he is tugging a jacket on and shuffling outside the farmhouse, holding out his Scroll to light his way towards the shrine.

The brisk night air is frigid, hinting at the winter to come; in a few weeks, it shall be the snowy season once again, and he and Nora and Ren shall need to build up a winter routine with the three of them. Somewhere in that routine, he knows he needs to implement a habit of visiting the shrine each day, for now that they will not have gardening to do, this shall be the one thing they do outdoors amidst the freezing temperatures. _I haven’t been forgetting,_ he tries to reason with himself, guilt gnawing numbly at his bones, _I’ve just been thinking about a lot of things._

It is true. Nothing has ever truly been the same since learning of the Atlas’ impending attack.

…it does not justify the fact that he has been forgetting to visit the shrine more often as of late. He knows this. He only hopes that Qrow is not lonely. He does not mean to hurt Qrow.

For now, however, he must find his former subordinate. To his great discomfort, the footprints in the muddy path eventually lead to the shrine, just as he had feared; as quickly as his legs allow, he shuffles back into the forest clearing, praying that he shall find Harriet before anything happens.

She does not kneel at the altar, merely standing a few feet away, hands tucked into her pockets and gaze concentrated upon the carvings on the stone. “I should’ve told you about this place,” he calls quietly. “It’s a shrine we’ve made… would you like to make an offering?”

“This isn’t to the Brothers, though,” she replies, curious and baffled. “So, who’s it for?”

His brain automatically supplies, _Why should I pray to them when they abandoned me,_ but his mouth speaks, “A local deity. He protects this forest, and us.”

To his absolute disgust, Harriet does not bow to the shrine and pay her respects, nor does she simply accept that information and leave. Instead, she doubles over, a laugh ripping through her belly so fiercely that when she finally lifts her face again, there are tears in her eyes, twinkling alongside her bright white teeth even in the waning moonlight. “You built a shrine yourself to a local deity? What, you’re too scared to fight the Grimm now, so you bank on the _gods?_ You used to be a _soldier!_ And now, Kingfisher’s just collecting dust in your _farmhouse-_ gods, Clover Ebi,” and she stands, her tiny form exuding so much strength and power and brash confidence that Clover almost cowers at the sight, “you really have changed. Maybe this place _is_ your home, after all.” She walks past him, her previous irritation nowhere to be seen. “Fine. I’ve done my duty, _sir._ It’s up to you to use this information or not, but there _is_ going to be a battle here.”

“…Don’t you have a mission in Anima? Telling me this can’t be why you came here,” he mutters through gritted teeth, fists clenched tight.

She enters the treeline behind him. “I do. I thought it might be worth taking a detour- I guess it wasn’t, in the end.”

Clover is about to chase after her when he hears the sounds of an airship engine. _That would be her escort,_ he thinks, turning back to the shrine. He faintly hears voices, but he does not go to investigate; it is far easier to sink to the ground, allowing his fatigue to spill out of him after an already-long day of setting up the back flower garden for the winter and repotting the indoor plants. It is almost dizzying, the way tidal waves of emotion crash into him without restraint, attacking him with such sensation that he cannot breathe. The sense of exhaustion which overwhelms him at her near departure fills him with a sour mixture of relief and disappointment-

And _shame._

How could he have let Harriet say those things? How could he have allowed her to speak of Ren and Nora, to speak of _Qrow,_ to speak of these beings he has grown to love and cherish with all his heart, in such a flippant manner- as if his adoration for these souls is one to be mocked- as if they are not valued?

 _By Atlesian standards,_ he thinks bitterly, wanting to laugh as well, _they’re_ not _worth anything, though. Harriet isn’t wrong._

That conclusion is what brings the first sob to properly slip out of his throat. They are worth something, Atlas be damned. Ren and Nora- _Qrow-_ they are worth _everything,_ now.

He cannot leave them behind. He knows Harriet does not want to lose an old comrade. He also knows that the only reason he is here is thanks to those children- thanks to this deity whose presence becomes known the moment the engine’s rumbling groans fade away into the night sky. War be damned, he cannot say goodbye to this place which has inextricably become a part of him.

“You are distressed.” The voice filters through the clearing from behind him, curling into his ear with such tenderness that Clover’s eyes fill with tears unbidden. “What is wrong?”

Clover lets out a long, shuddering breath, shuffling towards the rocky outcropping. He lays his forehead against icy-cold, smooth stone, shivering at the contact, but refusing to pull away. “You once said,” he begins carefully, “that you will never participate in human battles.”

“Yes.”

“…Okay.”

With that, he does not elaborate. It is far easier to play pretend- to imagine that Harriet had never come- to ignore this idea that war is on the horizon, and there is nothing he can do about it.

…he is tired. All of this night has been too much.

Thankfully, Qrow does not know the truth. It is easier to pretend, after all, when one of the actors believes their play is truth; even easier is having that actor’s beak combing through one’s hair, his fingers brushing against one’s skin, his heart in one’s hands.

Clover shall not break that heart, he tells himself. He shall cherish it, Harriet’s warnings be damned. Qrow deserves that much.

 _I’ll bring the kids tomorrow morning,_ he thinks wearily to himself as he bids Qrow goodnight, pressing a kiss against a feathered head with as much tenderness as he dares to muster for this god. _I’ll let them spend the morning with him._

He is so, so tired these days, though. The easiest thing of all… is to do nothing.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one! Only a few more chapters left :D If you're reading along, let me know!

Before the winter had begun, Clover had held grand plans within his heart. He was going to continue teaching the children, he had thought; he was going to finally improve his pitiful baking abilities in order to stave off Nora’s eternal want for pastries and bread. He had been planning on testing out winter vegetables now that he had Ren and Nora’s help to ensure the crop was being taken care of even when the cold seeped far too deep into his injured, bolted-together bones for Clover himself to move properly. He was going to visit Qrow every day, and then, if the god would allow it, he had wanted to invite the deity to stay in his home, as he had the previous winter on those occasional chilly nights. He was going to do his best not to worry about what Harriet had said, and instead was going to focus on giving these children the happiness they deserved in whatever peace they had left to them.

His plans had been genuine, true.

And yet, somehow, before he knows it, winter is already in full swing. Their routines are lazy and lethargic, each day focused on accomplishing one task versus the many he had managed to get through himself the year before; there is a certain kind of fatigue which lingers in the eyes and hearts of the children, too, as they stumble through their days. Their priority is simply staying fed and staying warm, and going outside is not conducive to that in the slightest.

So… they stay inside.

Away from the shrine.

At least he does not need to worry about Qrow. After the first heavy snow of the season, he hears a pecking at his windowsill; from then on, the god comes to check on him and the children each night. Clover eventually begins to leave the window open for the crow, although Qrow scolds him for it, but… it’s just easier to stay where it’s warm, curled up by the fire. Qrow has his two places to perch whilst in Clover’s home, after all; there is always a little bird’s nest which Clover had constructed the year before, still set up for the god; and Clover’s lap is always open, ready for the creature’s embrace.

Qrow does not seem to mind that Clover does not visit the shrine much over these months. “It is your knee, is it not? The cold increases the pain,” he reasons softly in Clover’s ear one eve. “I do not want to cause you injury, Clover. You have suffered enough.”

Clover swallows thickly. He wishes it were that simple, but how in the world can he explain this feeling to the god when Qrow does not experience the same kind of human _weariness?_ How can he tell this deity that he longs to go out to the shrine, that he dreams of laying under the stars with the god’s brilliant aura lighting up that clearing as they look up at the stars just as he had the year past- that he _cannot_ bring himself to do it, for some strange, unearthly reason? It is not as if he is depressed or even remotely unhappy- the sight of the children stumbling downstairs, hair sticking up in all directions in their cozy pyjamas and fuzzy socks, is enough to warm his heart like nothing else. He is not lonely, nor is he upset. He just… does not know how to be _present._

But Qrow forgives him, always. That beak never ceases to comb through his hair once the children have gone to bed, the deity’s light always filling his living room after his candles burn to nothing. Clover wonders whether he deserves it. He is grateful for it, though; now that the children are staying with him, he does not want to earn a deity’s ire when he needs Qrow’s protection more than ever.

He almost wishes Qrow wasn’t so intimate, though. It is difficult to bite back the fact that his heart still longs to _see_ Qrow, to _hold_ him. It is the foolish, selfish wish of a mortal, and he knows it, but he cannot help it.

When the springtime finally rolls around, Clover almost weeps in happiness. The sight of tiny green sprouts pushing through frozen patches of snow-covered soil lights a spark of joy in him which he has not felt in _months._ There is something so glorious in seeing that hint of yellow, that ray of sunshine peeking through the grey and white seas of clouds floating above, pushing through the thick layers of snow. It is wonderful- enough to properly invigorate him for the first time in so, so long.

He goes to the shrine with Nora and Ren that morning, and together, they clean and eat and bring Qrow enough offerings to cover the last few months. The shrine is soon packed to the brim with trinkets and little carvings Nora has done and cookies and preserves which Clover has made with Ren, and Qrow accepts them all with glee, flying down and refusing to leave from Clover’s and Ren’s and Nora’s embrace for the rest of the day. Nora and Ren are more than happy to stay there until the sun sets, babbling on and on with an energy that Clover has not seen in them since the previous summer.

It is wonderful.

However, when the children’s chattering turns to the topics of war which have begun to bleed into their ears as well throughout the winter months thanks to the few CCTS broadcasts they truly tune in to, Qrow’s joyous energy seems to dissipate in an instant. “It’s okay,” Ren soothes Nora when the girl’s face turns glum at the thought of upcoming battles. The young boy smiles, leaning his head on Nora’s shoulder as he looks up hopefully at Clover. “Qrow shall protect us, right? We shall pray and pray, and we shall be safe here.”

Clover smiles encouragingly, but he does not nod, does not confirm these words. After all, Qrow’s talons tighten over his skin, threatening to pierce his flesh, although he doubts the deity is aware of this force. Qrow has already made it clear to Clover that he does not participate in the battles of man.

He wonders whether that sentiment would hold true if the war truly did arrive.

Clover wants to sleep. It is all too much to think about- these murmurings of war are naught but whispered remnants of a life he has left behind. He would very much like to keep it in the past, to never think about conflict ever again. He is sick and tired of having everything ruined by battle.

Spring comes and goes. They get back into the habit of going to the shrine, if for no other reason than to pawn off a surprisingly bountiful harvest; with this third summer incoming, Clover finally has a grasp of what to do before the picking seasons really get underway, leaving him able to grow more than enough to pay for himself and the children without dipping into his savings. The stall at the market thrives next to the baker’s stall, after all; his blueberries are an even greater hit than before, and now that he’s getting a hang of preserves, too, those are more than popular enough to support a steady stream of income- and of trinkets for Qrow.

And yet, the town seems to exist in a nebulous sense of reservation. It is not the same as it had been the year before, Clover realizes faintly; whether it is from the talks of war, or the same fatigue grinding down on Clover’s bones, there is far less life in town that spring even as the airships begin their transit routes once again, bringing people back into the ebb and flow of the town’s natural heartbeat. The sunshine is not enough to reinvigorate a people who still seems halfway trapped in winter’s hibernation.

Still, life goes on. A few times that spring, there are terrible storms, just as there had been during Clover’s first year in Anima; thanks to Qrow’s kindness and ever-watching grace, Clover wakes up each time to find his home in ruins, but his children, safe and sound. The trio grows accustomed to patching up windows and rebuilding the trellises outside, their hands moving in perfect harmony as they pass along tools and supplies to keep this old farmhouse sturdy and safe.

As the spring winds down and leads into summer while Clover is forced to clean up the kitchen for the fifth time in four months, he cannot help but sigh and lean back against one of the unscathed walls. “What’s the point of going into town to buy supplies if it’s going to get destroyed again?” he murmurs aloud, his leg aching from stiffness and strain, every muscle in his body simultaneously too tense to work and too languid to even care.

It is Nora who spurs him on anyways. “We’ve gotta stock up for winter again, don’t we?” she says softly, yawning for the nth time that day as she carries a tray of carefully-swept broken glass out of the house. “We gotta start now!”

He knows she is correct. With a sigh, he totters over to her and presses a kiss upon her forehead on his way to call Ren from behind the house where the boy is surveying the damage done to the gardens. They need to get their jackets and boots on properly for a trip into town. _Maybe I should just start stocking up on house repair things even now,_ he thinks wearily, _so then we can save future trips._

That sounds nice to him. He is growing weary of these trips- he is growing weary of _everything,_ in all honesty. This fatigue is only compounded by the fact that his dreams begin to haunt him as summer rolls around, bringing with it the scathing heat of southern Anima; perhaps it is the heat causing these dreams.

He hopes so. There is nothing more gutting than waking up, only to find that Qrow is not, in fact, in his arms. The only thing left behind is a sour taste in Clover’s mouth and an emptiness, and neither of those things are helping his hollow heart carry on.

Ren whispers one evening, “Is it… Is everything weird because of the soldiers in town?”

Clover draws him in for a one-armed hug, leaning back against the shrine’s outcropping and looking up at the stars. “I don’t think so,” he replies slowly.

But maybe it truly is the fault of the soldiers who have completely taken over the inn for all these months, still awaiting further orders from their superiors whilst mooching off the townsfolk. That tiny thought begins to grow into a full-on suspicion, however, as he begins to hear of calamities falling upon the townsfolk; each time he sets up his tiny stall (always a little slower than before) he hears news of more problems ailing these people. Some fields are experiencing strange, isolated drought. Other farmers are experiencing terrible infestations, nothing like they have ever seen before. Food stores are dwindling, but while they speak on it, no one seem to be the faintest bit concerned; they do, however, openly show frustration with Clover’s luck, for no ill has befallen Clover’s crops, as small as his harvest may be.

It is only thanks to Qrow, and Clover knows it.

However, it is only when the deaths in town begin to mount that his suspicion truly, fully solidifies into full-on fear. It begins in the fall after hearing of a few ill soldiers who had been staying in the inn. The older folk in town had likely caught some bug from the new shipment of soldiers who had arrived, Clover had been told, leaving them weak and vulnerable, a fact which eventually has cost quite a few of the elderly folk their lives.

He does not worry too much about it- and with his own home so neatly separated from town, it almost feels like a rumour being whispered upon the wind, something which he does not need to truly take seriously. He does not go to investigate, either. His priority is ensuring that the children are safe, after all; he explains to Nora and Ren why they cannot go into town just to be safe, a situation which stresses and confuses the two young ones immensely. However, he stands firm upon this decision, for they have enough in storage to last them even through winter if need be.

Then, the news of those deaths becomes _real._

He finally receives the news through a stuttering Scroll signal. With this, he understands just how dire the situation truly is; he reads the message four times before it sinks in, and even once the words have been processed, the grief does not arrive.

It should be hitting him. It should be _breaking_ him.

It does not.

He waits for it. He sits there at his kitchen table, waiting for the tears to come. He understands what has happened, but for some reason, he cannot shed a single tear, cannot heave a single sob. He does not feel _sad,_ no matter how much he awaits the incoming grief, ready for it to overtake him- and yet it never arrives.

At least the children weep. The old baker has passed away in her sleep, despite her relative youth and liveliness. The townsfolk do not know whether it is the same thing which has robbed those soldiers of their lives, but no one is taking the risk to find out. Nora and Ren scream and beg to go into town to see her final ceremonial rights, but the townsfolk hold a memorial which they cannot attend thanks to a storm, leaving them stranded and huddled up in his cellar.

So, they use his shoulders as their caskets to cry upon, and he lets them, his own heart beating with a rhythm which is so calm that it makes him want to vomit.

Once Nora and Ren have shed enough tears to water their entire garden, their two tiny bodies are carried upstairs and tucked in. Clover patiently wipes their tear-stained cheeks and smooths out their hair, kissing their foreheads and laying warm, comforting blankets around their shoulders. He tucks them in together this night; he knows that they shall need someone else to hold once they come to their senses, and he does not know if he will be there if they should awaken in the middle of the night, trying to find him.

After all, Clover’s feet are already carrying him out of the door by the time he has parsed together these actions. He is dressed far too lightly for an autumn eve, but he does not care.

“Something is wrong with me,” he laughs brokenly as he presses his forehead against the base of the shrine, a few inches way from Qrow’s bouquet of carvings. “Why aren’t I sad? I am sad- I- she was a friend, she was like the only family I have down here, but- why can’t I cry? What’s wrong with me?” He laughs, barks of noise turning his voice hoarse and haggard as he continues to shiver and shake with this strange, unidentifiable emotion and the cold biting into his bones.

His eyes are thankfully already closed when strong, warm arms wrap around his shoulders like the summer’s embrace itself, soothing his aching soul. The light shining through his eyelids is so bright it burns as godly fingers trace his brow, gentle fingertips smoothing out his furrowed wrinkles with the gentleness of a summer breeze. “I… Clover,” Qrow’s haunting voice whispers hoarsely in his ear, his arms squeezing ever-so-slightly, “you are not broken. I do not know what ails you, but you are still you.”

But Clover isn’t. He hasn’t been himself in a year, he realizes- but he does not know how to say that when he can see Qrow’s handsome visage shining through his closed eyelids, even as Clover bows his head in reverence. He cannot bring himself to say a word when the vague, blurry, stuttering outline of Qrow’s brow is just as furrowed, his shimmering crimson eyes just as lonely as Clover _wishes_ he himself could feel now that he has lost his dear, dear friend.

But Clover does not want to see this grief in Qrow’s eyes. Qrow hasn’t done anything wrong. He does not want this deity to weep for him… and yet, Qrow does, eventually turning back into his corvid form so he can nuzzle his head into the crook of Clover’s neck, trilling and clicking with a grief that would break anyone’s heart.

Come dawn, Clover still feels empty.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 4 more chapters left! Although are people even still reading my FG fics lul idek
> 
> Let me know what you think of this confrontation!

Winter comes, as cold and relentless as ever. Clover finds himself staying in bed more days than not, occasionally finding the children sleeping by his side as well to stay warm as the seasons change. He does not mind their presence; they are additional bodies, and with an especially cold season coming (if the reports from the CCTS are to be believed) he will take any warmth he can get.

As time passes however, the skies eventually coating the earth in thick, muffling blankets of snow, Clover finds himself hesitating to leave that bed. It is his home, he thinks. Food is unnecessary as long as he is comfortable. Water is a second thought, only acquired when he truly cannot stand it anymore. The knocking of a beak upon his window is almost rhythmic, tantric- a lullaby which soothes him like nothing else in these long, quiet winter days.

The knock upon the front door is like a splash of cold water. He does not know how long it has been since he has seen a stranger in these parts, considering the shutdown of the normal airship transit routes during the winter; he opens the door wearily, squinting at the light which streams into the farmhouse as he looks at this newcomer.

It is merely a traveller, he finds. His back is laden with goods and supplies, and their feet are covered in snowshoes. Clover rasps out, his throat parched and pained, “May I help you?”

Upon seeing him, this stranger immediately backpedals two paces, worry and wariness filling his dark eyes. “Hello!” he says, his bright tone a mismatch with is furrowed, distrustful brow. “I just had a few questions.”

Clover leans heavily against the doorframe, crosses his arms, and gestures for the man to continue.

Narrowing his eyes, the traveller murmurs, “I’ve been walking across Anima. The next town is my next pit stop- at least, that was the plan.” He sighs, pulling out his Scroll clumsily with gloved fingers. Holding up the screen, he shows the map to Clover, pointing at the trail leading to the village. “But I’ve been hearing some rumours about a plague? Some kind of epidemic? It doesn’t seem to be affecting anywhere else, but I also haven’t heard any news about any illness, so I wasn’t sure. Do you think it’s safe to go there?”

Clover blinks slowly at him, processing these words at a snail’s pace. However, it finally clicks; he replies wearily, “They thought at first it’s something… the Atlesian soldiers occupying the main street brought. It’s been affecting people randomly, I think, but they… they didn’t find anything when they tried to figure it out. Just correlation, just bad luck, that’s all. No actual illness.”

The traveller lets out a small sigh of relief, but the hint of fear and discomfort in his eyes only worsens as he looks Clover up and down, a frown pulling his full lips. “Um… are you alright, man? You don’t look like you’ve eaten recently.”

Clover shakes his head, shrugging. “No,” he says, thinking of the very full cellar which is still stocked to the brim with supplies- almost strangely so at this point of winter, now that he thinks about it. “We have more than enough. Would you like to take any supplies or tools when you go?”

The man shakes his head, smiling ruefully. “No, it’s alright. Take care, okay? This winter’s been pretty rough.”

Clover waves goodbye as the man begins to march away, continuing his trek once more; the moment he is back onto the main road once again, Clover sneaks back into the house, returning back to his bed where it is warm and safe and _right._

This dull, unyielding, lethargic way of life continues all the way until the midpoint of winter. When the skies are at their dimmest, his lands covered in layers of snow so thick he can barely wade through them even with the help of his grandfather’s cane, Clover suddenly awakens in the middle of the night to the sound of horrifying, dizzying screams. They are not human, he finds; the piercing frequency, that resonance, the dread creeping up into his very bones which runs so deep that he cannot breathe after so many months of sheer _nothing…_

He clambers down the stairs, stumbling as he grabs his dusty jacket off the hook and shoves his feet into his boots. Kingfisher is covered in spider webs, but he ignores them, grabbing the weapon- then, he pauses.

Since when have his fingers become so _thin_ around Kingfisher’s grip?

Another blood-curdling screech fills the air. Swallowing thickly, he throws open the door, popping his Scroll into his pocket so that the flashlight still peeks out overtop. The layer of snow blocking his front door is thick, but after a few stumbles, he manages to walk around the back of the house.

And when he does- when he sees the horrors which awaits him- all he can do is _scream._

It is soundless, the cry of horror which erupts from his throat. He screams in silence again and again, his brain unable to comprehend exactly what he is seeing in front of him, for the shadows of night, the darkness, the ethereal setting of snow-covered earth and trees and road, the gently falling flakes dancing in the air- it all juxtaposes with the creatures he sees before him perfectly.

He vomits. His stomach is empty, weak. Nothing emerges, not even acid; however, a cry finally escapes his throat as he heaves, his brain finally recognizing what exactly this is. He has seen their kind in his studies in Atlas, after all, although he has never heard of them infesting a place in reality in such big numbers.

They are called the Apathy- a horde-like Grimm that resembles human beings just enough to become the creations of nightmares. Long, skeletal faces peer back at him at the sound of his retches, tilted and off-kilter, glowing orange-red eyes prominently set in gaping skull-like masks of all shapes and sizes. There are probably a hundred of the monsters; they all litter his garden and spill out to the side of the road, trampling his gardens underneath all of the snow. Talons reach out to him on instinct as hundreds of beady eyes lock onto his form, dripping maws widening as they find their new target.

_I should’ve known._

They all seem to simultaneously suck in a breath of air before another unified, horrendous scream erupts, filling the air with cacophonous cries which are harmonious and dissonant all at once, piercing his skull with little sympathy. He loses all his strength in an instant; these screams infiltrate his very soul, sucking away all of his energy.

His brain begs him to move. His body does not respond. Clawed hands begin to reach out towards him.

Then, a thought creeps across his mind, one which he realizes he has not thought truly in weeks. _…where are the kids?_

Before he has a chance to dwell upon it, a familiar scythe appears in the air. Clover shuts his eyes on instinct as the sky grows bright enough to mistake it for the dawn, that silver-red blade he had seen the year before slicing through body after body. He can hear the sound of the deity’s weapon slicing through flesh without restraint. _Their cries probably don’t affect a god,_ he thinks dimly, waiting for the screams to stop as Qrow cleaves through group after group of Grimm.

It feels like it takes a lifetime. By the time silence returns to the air, Clover is genuinely unsure as to whether he had simply fainted halfway through the assault; all he knows is that after lying face-first in the snow for so long, suddenly every inch of his body burns as he is scooped up into familiar, tender arms. “Clover,” Qrow sobs, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t notice they were hurting you- I didn’t know-“

Clover merely grits his teeth, for the contrast between the safety, this heat, is too much after so much time surrounded by the snow.

Qrow’s normally booming voice is painfully human as he sucks in another gasping, fatigued breath before whispering, “I should have known. Look at you. I should have broken into the house when you never responded- what have they done to you?” Acidic venom enters his tone as he adds, “That military from the north created a cavern underneath the town, and these monsters found their way in. They’ve been digging for so, so long- how did I not notice they had gotten here?”

Clover tries to pull away. “I’m okay-“

“Clover-“

“Please,” Clover whispers. Now that the monsters are dead, his brain is reeling from sensation, from discomfort- from the sudden awareness of _everything._ He does not question why, his training from long ago resurfacing as he recalls just how easily Apathy Grimm’s presence can cause one to lose their grip on reality, losing all of their emotions. Losing their will to survive, to sustain themselves, to carry on.

 _This is how the baker died._ He clenches his fists as tight as he can managed- it is not much of an effort. _They… gods, they were going to consume me, weren’t they?_

 _Gods,_ how does he look right now? How long has it been since he was so aware of his heartbeat, of his _frailty,_ like this?

Clover clears his throat. Even that mere action is painful as the shivers begin to set in, phlegm from throwing up earlier clogging his airway slightly as he rasps, “I know it isn’t your land, your forest, but please… go save the town.”

“No, I-“

“My friends are dying, Qrow.”

Those fingers which wrap around him squeeze, painfully so.

“Please.”

He feels lips as gentle as the breeze caress his forehead after a moment’s hesitation. “…Please live, Clover.” And with that, Qrow sets him upon his feet and disappears, the distant sound of a corvid’s frantic caws filling the air as a dark shape speeds off into the distance.

Clover does not waste any time. Now that he has his senses about him, there is one thing he must do. So, he runs inside without hesitation, bolting to the bathroom as quickly as his ailing limbs can carry him. Every bone in his body aches with a fervour he cannot even comprehend after what must be over a _year_ of numbness, but he pays it no mind, focused solely upon his goal.

Finally, he is there. The bathroom light illuminates planes and divots in his face which he has never before seen, his flesh gaunt and dry and cracking with the papery-thin veneer of someone barely clinging onto life; he blinks red-rimmed eyes as he takes in his collarbones in sharper relief than he thought possible. Since when has he looked like this? Since when has he fallen apart, become so gaunt and sickly and pale that he no longer resembles the man he had been, even at his weakest in that hospital bed after his injury?

He feels sick. He feels empty and too full all at once, his knobby knees threatening to crumble under the weight of it all. Just how many Grimm had been residing under the town for their impacts to have been felt all the way here? How had no one realized that it was the Apathy when they had seen these strangely dry, emaciated forms left behind from these insidious, creeping Grimm?

Suddenly, his entire world goes dark as one lingering question rings into his mind, returning after that initial thought during the attack from the Apathy.

_Where are the children?_

He rips open their door in desperation, his clumsy form falling upon his knees painfully as he frantically searches for the children. Prayers to the Great Brothers, to every god he can think of, spill from his lips without restraint as he searches for them. _Please, please let them be alive._

He almost sobs when he sees two chests moving under covers illuminated by the moonlight outside. Clumsily, he pulls down their blankets. Nora and Ren are both just as hollowed out and emaciated as he is, laying side by side, with thin, almost skeletal fingers intertwined. The sobs tear themselves hoarsely from his throat as he gathers them both up in his arms, whispering, “Kids- Nora, Ren, _please, please_ wake up, please, I need you to wake up-“

Nora coughs through pale, cracked lips, blinking blearily at him. “What- what happened?” she whispers, a crooked grin shining through the darkness, the tears, the _grief,_ clouding Clover’s vision. “Clover, you look… you look funny.”

He does not respond, his strangled sobs buried in their greasy, unkempt hair as he pulls his children onto his lap. They are far too light- too light, too thin, too weak to pull away. Ren’s head lolls to the side, the hollows of his cheeks straining as he attempts to formulate words to no avail. Clover watches it all, crushed beyond measure, unable to say a word.

It is only when Qrow flies to their window that his tears finally begin to dry. “You are safe,” the god’s voice echoes on the wind curling into the children’s bedroom. “I… I am so sorry. You need to rest, Clover. You are weak.”

Clover shakes his head, refusing to let the children go when Qrow suggests he return to sleep. No, Clover cannot rest this night; Clover shall stay awake until sunrise, and then, he shall go into his cellar with the dregs of his willpower and physical strength. He shall remove the stores which have been untouched all this time, and he shall nurse these children and himself back to health, and he shall fix this crime his has committed- however unintentionally- against these two innocent creatures.

“I… I may not be able to come to the shrine for a while,” Clover whispers into Nora’s hair. “I don’t know if they can make it out there.”

He closes his eyes as the room grows bright with Qrow’s brilliant aura, weeping anew as he feels those reassuring, tender, _warm_ fingers brush through his hair gently. “I shall come here,” he promises gently. “I shall not let you suffer anymore. It must have been my misfortune- I shall make it right, I _swear._ ”

And the pure, unadulterated _shame_ consumes him again, for Qrow is a _deity_ and they are _mortals,_ and the desire which wracks his core- the desire to beg for Qrow to do it, to keep his word, to _stay-_ is so presumptuous that it is a wonder he has not yet been struck down.

Qrow’s touch is gentle. His touch is warm. And in receiving this touch, these gentle reminders of the support who shall carry him through this crisis, Clover cries, for he does not want to be alone. The burden of emotion is far too heavy after over a year of apathy.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close to the finish line :D Let me know what you think in the comments!

“Did you know?”

“Know what, Clover Ebi?”

“Don’t give me that, _Operative_. Did you _know?”_

“…I’ve seen the news, yeah-“

He slams his fist on the kitchen table hard enough to make his coffee mug bounce, liquid sloshing over the sides. The clanking of ceramic upon wood, the splashing of liquid, the ragged pants of barely held-in anger leaving his nose- they all cause Ren to lift his head up over the back of the armchair, a worried crease in his brow, although he is too far away to hear what is being said.

Clover takes in a deep breath, holds it in, then exhales. Quietly, he spits, “Did you know about the cavern below the town?”

“…Our operations in Anima are classified, and you know that, _sir._ ”

He almost screams. Instead, he bites it back and lets out a long, weary sigh. “…fine. Do not come back here.”

Before he can hang up on her, however, Harriet Bree murmurs with a strangely genuine air, “I… I heard about the death toll. For that, I really am sorry-“

He does not hear the rest, setting his Scroll down onto the table and standing up with wobbly knees. “Alright Ren. Go grab Nora,” he calls. “The pancake batter’s ready.”

“I’ll help cook when I come back!” Ren chirps.

Clover smiles, but that expression falls away instantly as Ren actually makes the move to stand up and totter upstairs. Ren’s body is still painfully thin, eyes gaunt and fairly lifeless as he drags himself up step by step to the second floor, his weak voice warbling, “Nora, food’s almost ready! Nora?”

The man’s grip tightens upon the edge of the countertop as he watches Ren’s stick-thin figure disappear upstairs. _Gods, they’re still so weak,_ he thinks, glancing over to the window. His reflection in the glass is haunting, a mere skeletal remnant of the proud, strong man he had once been. It is haunting. It is horrifying.

And with this call to Harriet, it is practically confirmed that it had likely all been Atlas’ fault; at the very least, Atlas had done nothing to solve the problem, to warn them. Now, Clover’s friends are dead, and not even the favour of a deity shall ever right that loss or ease that pain.

However, he is already feeling a little bit better than the night the Apathy finally made their way to his farm. There is a light in his eyes which has not been there in months- his cheeks have already begun to fill out a little bit as he eats and eats, happy to add more servings into each of their meals thanks to the plentiful stock that remains in the cellar after months of unintentional starvation. At least that is a blessing amidst these times, amidst the remnants of their reawakening into reality.

Qrow is likely to thank for that, in all honesty. The god has not allowed him to rest until he has eaten full meals each evening. He pecks and squawks and shakes the foundations of the farmhouse with the force of his voice until Clover opens up the windows, allowing this flurry of wind and movement and energy into his kitchen, pecking at pots and pans until there is food in their stomachs, even if they don’t necessarily want to eat at all that day. Although Clover feels uncomfortable due to this situation- not even in his wildest dreams could he ever have imagined a _god_ taking care of him and his precious, crumbling family like this, so _personally-_ there is large part of him that is naught but grateful.

There is someone on his side irrevocably. That feels wonderful.

There is another piece of him, though- a piece of him which longs to beg Qrow to stay after the bird has watched them eat their fill. Qrow still leaves before the dawn each time he stays in their living room, be it in his nest or in Clover’s lap; it is shameful how much the man dreams of a day when he can awaken to the feeling of dark hair nestled into the crook of his neck in the place of feathers, a tall, lean body curled up into his perfectly.

He dreams. He longs for it. He does not ask- a tiny, shadowy fragment of his heart wonders whether the reason the Apathy arrived was due to the Great Brothers, to spite him and his newfound happiness after abandoning frequent worship of the most powerful deities of their world. He wonders whether it was his actions which had brought this calamity unto the townsfolk, unto Nora and Ren.

Wondering gets him nowhere; it gets him nothing but heartache and regret. He wonders anyways. There is little else to do these days, for even if he wants to become as vibrant and energetic as he had been during previous winters, his body- and the bodies and hearts of the children- are not ready for that. They need _time._

So, the rest of the winter is spent in prayer, in eating, in togetherness. They eventually regain the strength to make daily treks out to the shrine. Nora learns to bake, and Ren is getting better at cooking, and the two of them begin to take over those chores while Clover takes cleaning duty, for the children detest the act of scrubbing dishes. He does not mind it, though- the warmth of the water running over his hands is soothing, a kind of inevitable flow that reminds him too much of the fluid voice of the god with whom he shall dine later in the evening.

By time spring arrives, they still have plentiful stores and their bodies are no longer mere shadows of what they had once been. Nora is running around again, and Ren has the energy to stay up all night (way past his bedtime) reading novels. Clover is able to go into the garden and slowly but surely repair the damages left by the night of the Apathy’s arrival, giving him something to fill the days when Qrow is not around.

Then, everything changes again. Perhaps the gods truly are smiting him for his sins after all.

It happens gradually, but over time, Clover begins to realize that something is different- something with Qrow, that is. The god is slower to arrive at the shrine when he and the children come to leave offerings and share meals. The god no longer knocks as fervently upon the window, commanding to be let inside in order to check on lover. While this happens inversely to Clover’s gradual, careful recovery, it is still prominent enough to set off alarms in Clover’s heart as the god fails to appear one night.

Then, one night becomes two. Two becomes three. By the time Clover is stronger, it is springtime. Clover brings over one of the first daffodils of the season, proudly presenting the fact that they have _survived,_ they are _here,_ they still live and breathe and _worship-_

And no one comes to take that daffodil, even the next day.

There are still no Grimm in the forest, and he can still feel the gentleness of Qrow’s presence permeating the very clover and grass of the clearing. When Clover traces his fingers over the veritable bouquet left in Qrow’s wake upon the pedestal, he can close his eyes and imagine the god’s gentle, callused touch upon himself.

And yet… Qrow does not return to the shrine to stand before them.

It is once the market reopens come spring, missing far more stalls than anyone could have ever imagined after the destruction left in the wake of the Apathy herd, that it becomes evident that Qrow is no longer showing up to meet with Clover and the children. The trio continues to make their dinners at the shrine, sitting upon damp earth without restraint each eve, but no crow ever comes to join their happy flock. No one comes to visit them whilst they dine with an appetite that these lands have not seen in over a year. They recover in solitude, in quiet comfort, their progress remarked upon solely by the other townsfolk making it through their own journeys.

Clover feels a small hint of satisfaction when he sees the Atlesian soldiers stationed in town. They are just as gaunt and broken as the rest of the town. It is an ugly, pervasive thought, but he cannot deny that he feels a sense of justice at the sight of their hollowed cheeks, their wan skin.

The trips to town become soured over time, unfortunately. While it is still a blessing to have such a tight-knit community, only even tighter bound thanks to the tragedy which has torn apart their home, it chips away at Clover’s heart every single time Nora takes their final visit into the small store where they usually buy their trinkets for Qrow. “He’ll like this one!” she announces proudly as she picks out another little marble for Qrow. It glitters pink and magenta and robin’s egg blue in the sunlight, the outer glass fogging slightly as she breathes on it in the chilly spring air.

Clover smiles, handing her a few lien as he always does to buy this gift for Qrow. He does not have the heart to tell her that he shall place this marble into Qrow’s hiding spot himself- that Qrow shall not see these trinkets, that he shall not take them himself. It is a futile action, to place them within the god’s hiding spot, he thinks, but he cannot give up the idea that perhaps one day, Qrow shall come back home to him. Until then, he shall protect these offerings, protect this shrine.

He hopes to the heavens that Qrow comes home soon. He is growing sick of lying to the children, of telling them that Qrow is merely working to fight off more Grimm to keep them safe and thus needs more sleep. He is sick of looking his children in the eyes and feeding them these falsities.

Over time, he becomes so desperate for the deity’s return that he even finds himself going to the nearest shrine to the Great Brothers at the start of summer to beg for the deity of misfortune’s safe return.

His pleas are not answered. He is not surprised.

One evening, he awakens to find a pair of missing shoes at the front door. Immediately, fear and confusion overtake him; it is well into the early hours of the morning, and a quick glance in their room proves that Nora is still fast asleep, splayed out like a starfish without a care in the world. “Ren?” he calls out, stepping into the dark yard illuminated faintly by the electric-Dust lamps. “Ren, where are you?” He pauses, waiting for a response; what he receives instead is a faint, distant rustle in the bushes, coming from the forest.

His heart soars in his chest, his feet carrying him excitedly towards the clearing without a second’s hesitation. _Is he back?_ Clover beams, eyes sparkling in anticipation. _Did he come to the shrine-_

As he steps into the clearing, he does not see a corvid, nor a deity. Instead, he finds Ren kneeling politely in front of the shrine all alone, the boy’s wide eyes looking up at the brick-and-mortar shrine which they have all built together. His lips move quietly, the words too soft to hear.

 _Ren, what are you doing here?_ Silently, Clover tiptoes around the edge of the clearing until he is near enough to hear what Ren is saying. His heart immediately plunges into the mud as he begins to make out the words.

“Qrow,” Ren murmurs, his pubescent voice cracking clumsily, “I finished all the exercises Clover gave us today. I got perfect on them! He was really proud of us, but Nora still needs a bit of help with it. Don’t worry, I’ll help her.” He pauses. “We also baked a really good casserole today. It’s not something I’ve ever had before. I feel like it’s kind of easier than I thought it would be? Clover explained why it’s really good in Atlas. I think it makes sense. Farming sounds really hard up there, so I’m not sure how greenhouses are enough to keep enough food there.” He pauses again. “We’re going into town tomorrow! There’s a new baker who’s moving in from a village down south. I heard they’re from Menagerie! I’m a little scared since I remember my mom and dad didn’t like Menagerie very much but I miss having more bread.” Another pause. “I miss Aunty.” Another pause. “I miss Mom and Dad, too.” Another pause. “I miss the owner of the sweet store. He used to sneak us crystal candy. It was really delicious, even though I always got a stomach ache after eating.”

Then, his voice cracks again- this time, from the heartache which fills his eyes as he lifts his head to the sky. “Qrow, why don’t you say hello anymore? Did we do something wrong? Did you get in trouble for talking to mortals?” He sniffs, long and hard and broken. “I miss you, too.”

Clover stumbles out of the clearing, praying that he is as silent as his arrival. _Where are you, Qrow?_ “The Grimm do not attack us. I know you’re still here,” he breathes, leaning back against a tree trunk once he is out of sight of Ren. He lifts his eyes to the heavens. The night is starlit, twinkling from each end of the dark canvas above; even though much of it is covered by the canopy, the gaps between fluttering leaves moving in the wind is enough to witness the beauty of it all.

He wishes Qrow was here to watch it with him.

He hates how his voice quivers, how his eyes water and his lips tremble as he adds finally, “Please, Qrow. You restored my faith in the gods. Please don’t take it away again. Please come _home._ ”

But Qrow never does.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two! More! Left!

“Qrow hasn’t come back, has he?”

Clover sighs, gesturing for Nora to come closer. The girl obliges without hesitation, taking a seat on the grass next to Clover and leaning onto his shoulder forlornly. He wraps an arm around her, readjusting his bad leg to ease the discomfort from her weight’s added pressure, and murmurs, “He’s still here. Deities are responsible for many things, that’s all.”

“But…” She pouts, deflating as she looks at the shrine. They have brought a bowl of raspberries and red currants that day, and Clover cannot help but sigh when he thinks of how he shall come back that evening to dispose of these berries which shall indeed remain uneaten otherwise. It has been three months since they have seen Qrow, after all; while not a single Grimm has made its way into their forests, giving Clover and Ren and Nora the peace and tranquility they need to recover completely, it still does not change the fact that the god refuses to show his face to any of them.

The only place he can see Qrow is in his dreams. The guilt of the past is gone; Clover no longer tries to suppress his desires, finding himself waking up each morning in a feverish, wanton mess, wishing for the deity’s touch to be realized upon his skin at last. He no longer feels any shame from these dreams, for if this is all he has left of Qrow…

He misses the deity. He misses his voice, his presence, his light and his smile and his feathers brushing against Clover’s skin. He misses everything about the stumbling, painfully-human god.

He loves Qrow. That fact is unequivocal, irrefutable. And he wants Qrow back.

Yet, the god never does return. All Clover can do is ensure that his guilt in regards to his children never consumes him as wholly as it had right after the Apathy’s appearance; all he can do is wear a smile on his face and hold Nora and Ren close, for they deserve none of the pain they have suffered, and all he wants is to give them the life they were always meant to have.

It works, for the most part. Nora’s smiles eventually lose that tinge of loneliness. Ren’s eyes no longer trail longingly to the canopies whenever they eat dinner. The trio move on with their lives, never again allowing worship to fall from their days, but never expecting anything more. For a few blissful months, there is peace.

Whilst trapped in these motions of pretending that the hole in their hearts is not truly present, the tail end of summer arrives, and the largest farms begin their most bountiful harvests. Their produce supplies much of the local lands, so Clover is not worried about being able to stock up for the upcoming winter, especially thanks to his Atlesian stipend and his own profits, as meager as they may be.

…it is only a few months. Gods, how he _longs_ for a full year with his little family.

It starts off as a quiet rumbling, then murmurs of an even greater military presence. Echoes of small-scale infiltrations begun after many months of creeping unrest, whispered through their tiny communities. A few interruptions to the CCTS are easily ignored at first, but as rumours of an attack on one of the major CCTS towers back in Vale begin to circulate, Clover’s heart grows more and more wary, more and more fearful.

And then, the bombings begin.

He wonders whether he should have listened to Harriet after all when he sees the news play across his Scroll. The first places attacked are the neighbouring townships just outside of Argus, one of the central military bases for Atlesian soldiers outside of their borders; the attack happens in the dead of the night, the newsfeed upon his Scroll almost appearing like the trailer of an action movie after being so long removed from the battlefield.

“It won’t hit us,” he soothes Ren when he finds the boy praying fervently for peace in front of Qrow’s silent shrine. “We won’t be affected. There’s no troops here to bomb.”

Ren merely cries. He has given up asking Clover why the war is even happening, for Clover himself does not know. Nothing in the world could justify this loss, anyways. Sometimes, Clover cannot help but wonder whether Ren cries enough tears for Nora as well, however; the boy is sensitive, to be sure, but in looking at the two of them, Nora is always there to provide warmth and a smile and comfort.

Perhaps that is why one early morning, he wakes Nora up alone, taking her outside to sit in the garden with him to watch the sunrise over the east; he gives her some hot cocoa and wraps an arm around her shoulder, then murmurs after she stares at him long enough to bore confused holes into his skull, “I’ll keep you safe, Nora. This is your home, forever and always, as long as you should want it. I love you, you know.”

And the mug of hot cocoa falls to the ground, spilling and absorbing into the earth as Nora’s arms silently wrap around his waist, her face- so mature for a body so small, still so child-like despite hitting puberty well before Ren- buried in his chest as she begins to weep in earnest. He does not let her go until she is done crying, and then, he shoos her inside to wash her face before Ren awakens.

She wants to be strong for Ren. Clover will respect that- after all, as long as she can be weak in front of _someone,_ she shall be alright. She knows that she can always cry in front of Clover, and that is enough.

Despite ignoring most of her calls, he does not know why he picks up this one random message from Harriet Bree. Her message falls upon deaf ears in the end; she murmurs, “You need to leave,” but he simply shrugs and thanks her for her unnecessary warning, then hangs up the phone.

They shall be safe, right?

 _We’ll be safe,_ he tells himself each night after ensuring Nora and Ren are put to bed. _We’ll be safe. Qrow will keep us out of the worst of it, and even if something does go south, we’ll pull through. We’ve rebuilt every single time. We’ll be okay. My leg doesn’t even hurt that much anymore, so if worst comes to worst we can always pack up and rebuild, and the children won’t need to think of me as dead weight, and-_

His mind spins in circles until he passes out from exhaustion each night. He is weary. All he wants is peace.

The engines are in such sharp relief to the quietude filling the air once the usual airship routes shut down for the winter; they are what alert Clover of the intrusion which finally breaches their airspace, leaving the man bolting out of the house as fast as his feet can carry him. These ships carry Atlas’ crest; on sight, he can recognize the battleships after years and years of being brought to and from mission locations upon them. He shudders, calling out- perhaps if they see him, they shall recognize him, shall leave this place alone-

They are heading to town. Their munition bays are full. He knows what comes next.

He takes in a haggard breath and sprints inside, ushering the children into the cellar. He has not spent months fortifying it for nothing; his life savings, normally stored upon the CCTS network, have been partially withdrawn in case of emergency and stored in a safe down here, alongside provisions to last _months._

The children understand what this means. Clover does not ask them to venture into the cellar outside of gathering supplies. Upon entering the dim area, their faces immediately collapse, heartbreak clear as day as they clutch his arms. “No!” Ren gasps. “No, are the ships- but we’re not doing _anything!”_

Clover sucks in a haggard breath, then lets it all out in a weary, broken sigh. “Kill the soldiers, they can train new ones. Kill the farmers, and everyone starves.”

Their faces grow ashen. He wonders whether he should have minced these words, but he knows the truth- knows that there is nothing safe in this world, that he was trained relentlessly in these same tactics, that he used to be the best of his class for a reason.

Even Nora cannot remain completely cheery and composed as he cups their faces, pressing kisses against their forehead as he prepares to leave the house.

“But-“

“I want to make sure Qrow has a place to run.”

“But he left us behind!” Nora cries indignantly, gripping onto Clover’s hand with every ounce of strength she can muster.

His heart shatters as he sees the clear heartbreak in her eyes. “…you don’t mean that, and I can’t leave him behind, Nora,” he whispers, pressing his forehead against hers.

She gasps, the truth clicking in her eyes before being replaced by sheer sorrow. She glances over to a confused, teary Ren, then looks back. “C-Clover…”

He smiles. “Keep each other safe, okay?”

Ren sniffles. “Okay.”

Slowly, Nora grabs Ren’s hand in place of Clover’s, holding him tight. “…We’ll be here.”

Clover does not know if manmade bombs can kill a god. He shall not find out today- not if he can help it.

So, he does what he needs to do. He shows them his savings. He shows them the deed to the farm, his will, and the little gifts and trinkets which he has been accumulating to give them in the future. He tells them to only open things if necessary, and they nod, even though he doubts they can truly see what he is showing them through their tear-filled eyes. Then, he steps outside after holding these two children, his two greatest joys in the world, in his arms; it takes everything he has to let them go, but he cannot ignore the glaring truth- that the shrine is not ready, that _none_ of them are ready.

That as much as he wants to come back, he does not know if any of them will.

The earth rumbles, the sound of explosions deafening as the assault commences, knocking him off-balance almost immediately upon his exit from the house. He trips and stumbles, nearly falling flat on his face, but he does not relent; he rushes forth, struggling to make it to the shrine as quickly as possible.

There is no god in the shrine. He collapses with the sounds of another ringing explosion, the earth trembling under the might of fire-Dust and human hatred; he nearly crashes face-first into the rocky pedestal, but manages to maintain his balance as he brings his hand to his chest, bowing his head in frantic reverence.

“Please,” he begs, “please come back, Qrow. Please keep us safe.” He winces as another explosion goes off- it is closer this time, the trees swaying under the force of the explosion.

He lifts his eyes. The sky towards town is alight, the colours of dawn marred by fire and smoke pouring into the air. His ears ring incessantly, body both too sensitive and completely numb all at once as he loses feeling, loses balance, loses any sense of safety he had once cherished.

His home is being destroyed. The place he has come to call his own is under siege, and there is nothing he can do about it.

He bows his head once again, words spilling from his lips fervently, voice raising as another strike lands upon the ground even closer than before. “Qrow, _please,_ ” he cries, “come inside. Stay with us. I’m begging you- you can’t stay out here-“

“Please run,” a familiar voice booms into the clearing. “Clover, you shall not survive if you stay here-“

But those words are ignored, their meaning lost when all Clover can focus upon is the fact that he can hear this voice in reality yet again after _months_ of only being able to dream. “Qrow!” he gasps, looking up into the dark canopy above. “Qrow, you’re here- I knew it, please-“

He barely has a moment’s warning before his eyes are forced shut by the brilliance of Qrow’s light. He can sense the deity’s presence illuminating the clearing, the sight behind his eyelids breathtaking even in its vague outline, for Qrow is _here_ and _safe_ and _real-_

Hands which burn at every point of contact grab onto his shoulders and shake him. “Clover, do you not see?!” Qrow screams with the force of a thousand gales into his ear. “I cannot save you. You must flee-“

Clover is about to retort, to beg the god to come into the cellar in corvid form with him, when he realizes at last; Qrow’s fingers upon his arms are trembling. This god is _shaking,_ every fiber of his being quivering with whatever godly knowledge he possesses, his voice and hands and _heart_ shining with fear.

He is afraid for Clover.

Another explosion fills the air. Before Qrow can say a word, Clover whispers, “Nora and Ren are safe. We’re waiting for you.”

“…no harm can befall me from human weapons-“

“Okay. We still would like you there, anyways-“

“Do you not understand?!” Qrow screams, his voice thundering in time with another explosion. “I shall bring nothing but death to you- to the little ones-“

“No.”

Qrow pauses, stunned by Clover’s sudden calm.

Clover breathes in deep, shivering as Qrow’s familiar scent fills his nostrils- something spicy, earthy, _safe._ “This- this may be presumptuous, but… you’re part of our family, Qrow. I’ve never blamed you, you know,” he breathes, giving into his desires and nuzzling into Qrow’s shoulder, the touch filling him with such warmth he almost weeps. “For the Apathy. That’s why you left, right? It wasn’t your misfortune that caused it- it was humanity’s fault that we went through that. It wasn’t you.”

“I couldn’t protect you from them,” Qrow whispers. Clover sucks in a breath, waiting to be pushed away, to be blown to nothing as he faces the ramifications of his friendliness towards this deity. Qrow does not hurt him; rather, strong arms wrap around his shoulders, pulling him close so humanly that Clover’s heart almost stops in shock. “I am good for one thing, and yet, I could not protect you from those Grimm. I am worthless as a deity. Your worship is worthless, you _fool_ of a human.”

… _it’s never been worthless._

Slowly, Clover lifts his face. Even through closed eyelids, he can see the beauty of Qrow’s blurred visage. He is still just as breathtaking as he had been the first time he had glimpsed the deity’s humanoid form, the mere sight of Qrow filling his heart with such ease and comfort that he cannot help but sink into the clover and broadleaf plantain and grass around him, resting his weight against this god.

Qrow’s hand moves to cup Clover’s cheek, still trembling- still broken. Without hesitation, Clover turns to plant a kiss upon that callused palm. “When have you ever been _just_ a method of protection- when have you ever been just a shrine, Qrow?” Clover whispers.

The tremors in Qrow’s body grow more pronounced. “You _fool,_ ” he sobs before he pulls away.

Clover does not follow him, does not reach out. It is not his place- nor does he want Qrow to witness what shall happen next, for Clover can hear the tinny whistle of a missile head falling, and he doubts it would be audible if it were far away.

He sucks in a haggard breath, then relaxes. His children are safe- they have his love always, even as this whistling omen grows louder. So, he speaks into the air with all the strength he can muster. “I’ve never blamed you. I love you, Qrow. My worship was never wasted upon you, you’ve always been all we-“


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one chapter left. It'll be posted tomorrow, and then I shall be free of this fic XD

It is white.

He breathes in deep; the air smells of… nothing. It is strange, how lacking the surrounding are. Confused, he opens his eyes, almost laughing as he realizes that _nothing_ is the best way to describe this world; without a discernable horizon, all he can see is white light illuminating the universe from one side to the next, as far as his eye can perceive.

He takes a step forward, his feet no longer casting shadows as he looks down. His leg no longer aches. That, at least, is a blessing. However, as he closes his eyes and thinks back, that gratitude falls into nothingness as the truth sinks in, his heart cleaving itself neatly in two.

That missile had fallen, hadn’t it? Clover had been in the blast range, is that it?

“…am I dead?”

“You are.”

The fact that Clover’s body no longer lurches to snap his eyes shut and look away from the brilliant, shimmering figure of this golden, humanoid figure which appears instantaneously before him is the final straw. He does not doubt the words which come undoubtedly from this being, although the creature has no mouth by which to speak; a featureless visage looks down upon him from eight feet above, its giant, deer-like antlers reaching up into the white, blank heavens.

The words are sour, acrid, in his mouth. “…are you the Great Brother of Light?”

“Yes.” This voice is loud, booming with a strength and ferocity and _vigour_ that Clover instinctively recoils. Qrow's voice could never echo with such power; whether that is a good thing, however, is a different story.

Instantly, bile rises into his throat. _You abandoned me when I needed you the most._ However, even in his disorientation, Clover knows not to anger this deity; so, Clover nods slowly, resignation and frustration battling wearily in his heart. “I… I see.” Then, he pauses, jumping up to ask, “And the kids?”

“If you speak of the children who you cared for in life, then yes, they are still alive.”

His eyes fill with tears of relief, but he blinks them away. If Nora and Ren have survived, then he had done well- they shall live on without him. That relief is tainted, however, by the realization which strikes next: they are alone again.

 _They have a home,_ he tells himself. _They have shelter, and money, and food. They’re smart, too. The townsfolk all know them. They’ll be safe._

His children need more, though. He can visualize perfectly how Nora’s lips still tremble as she fights to hold back her tears when she’s scared, how Ren’s hand always unconsciously begs to be held while he sleeps. They need Clover. He knows this.

As he mulls over this, grief and frustration painting over his relief and gratitude over and over again until he can scarcely think straight, the God of Light finally speaks again. “You do not wish to pass.”

Clover’s head jerks up, but eventually, he sighs, nodding. “No, I do not.”

“Why?”

…where to even begin? “There is still too much to do. The children need me there- and also-“

Suddenly, Clover’s head splits with pain, his hands flying to his ears to block out a screeching, reverberating noise which comes from within. “You were a blessed one in life and yet you ask for more?!” the god scoffs.

Clover gasps and doubles over falling to one knee. “Yes,” he says, struggling to lift his face once again despite the crushing pressure inside his skull. “I’m sorry, but yes!”

“Those children shall survive without you,” the god thunders. “Their fate shall lead them to the end of their days. You were not meant to watch them reach that goal.”

At this confirmation, Clover’s heart sings. _They shall be alright._

The desire to live does not ease, however. After all, there is someone else waiting for him to come back- to rebuild- to _pray_.

“…you search for another,” the God of Light murmurs.

The pressure eases off of Clover’s skull, allowing him to stumble to his feet once again. Gingerly, he removes his hands from his ears and nods, straightening out his shoulders and standing tall in the face of this god of creation. “Yes.”

Clover does not know how long the deity is silent; time seems to stretch across an infinite expanse, spanning the blink of an eye and a lifetime all at once. Finally, the god replies, “You know what you ask for is a curse to most.”

Frowning, Clover opens his mouth to ask for clarification. Then, a story from years earlier springs to mind, his heart stopping in its tracks. He knows of what the god speaks, of the pain and suffering it can cause.

…is this truly what he wants?

_If Qrow shall be there, then…_

“I do.”

“You still want this?”

“…Yes.”

The God of Light stares at Clover with non-existent eyes; however, Clover can feel the deity’s gaze peering over his body and into his very soul, every inch of him exposed and laid bare for this deity to evaluate, to judge.

After what feels like an eon, the god’s golden, featureless face nods imperceptibly. “…we have seen your virtue and your strength. Your wish is granted. You shall find your purpose upon the remnants of this world.”

Clover’s breath stops in his throat as the white light begins to grow in intensity, the shine from every angle slowly blinding him little by little until he can see nothing else. So, rather than trying to speak, Clover merely bows his head in silent gratitude towards the ruler of the gods.

For the first time since his accident- and, he assumes, for the last time in his mortal life- he truly thanks the Great Brothers for existing- for creating a world in which he may have another chance.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that! What a relief to finally finish this story after all this time- it's officially my longest FG work. Let me know what you thought of this fic in the comments!

“It’s… it’s _you_.”

The voice curls into his ear without pomp and circumstance, a mere observation. It takes him a moment to process it; when he manages to place it, however, he quietly nods. For the first time in his life- and death, as it seems- Clover opens his eyes and looks straight into crimson eyes.

This is Qrow, he realizes; this dark, wild, grey-streaked hair that runs a little too long, falling into thin, almond-shaped eyes just enough that Clover longs to reach out and push those strands away- this long, straight nose that juts out proudly from his face, overtop of a proud, arched cupid’s bow- a strong chin covered in dark stubble, contrasting with pale skin stretched over nearly-gaunt cheekbones… this is _his_ Qrow.

His heart trembles as he looks around. The world is no longer ablaze as he remembers; instead, it is charred, half of their familiar forest decimated into nothing whilst the other half struggles to cling to life. Broken remains of pavement lay scattered in the distant ruins of the road, and as Clover turns around, he can see that half of his farmhouse- now completely in view, thanks to the absolute destruction of the protective grove surrounding the clearing- has been ripped asunder.

But half remains. He can see that the outer door to the cellar is undamaged, and that reconstruction is already well on its way. The garden has been restored. He can see that the world is already growing anew, for young saplings already grow amongst the charred remains of their destroyed forebears.

It has been a long time since he has been to this place, it seems.

He turns back to Qrow, looking past the deity to examine the shrine. Despite everything, the structure is still standing- completely restored, unlike everything else which is still clearly recovering. He walks forward, carefully running his fingers across the carvings in the pedestal. They are still safe, even after everything that has happened.

Qrow has protected this place, as he always has. He did his best.

Clover almost loses his composure completely when he sees the offering bowl upon the altar, the bread inside fresh. _They are alright._

With all of those pieces in place, he finally allows himself to stand up and look at Qrow once again. How can he be here? How can he possibly be allowed in Qrow’s presence, _seeing_ him in all his glory? How can his eyes be allowed to run down the lines, angles, planes of a thick neck, built, wide shoulders, wiry arms, a built chest-

His breath catches in his throat. Hanging around Qrow’s neck is a pendant- no, not a _pendant,_ per se. It is indeed familiar, though, its shape catching the light in its twisting curvature, clearly old and loved, the polish almost rubbed off completely. He squints as he struggles to place this piece in his mind’s eye, a gasp slipping through his lips as he figures out from where he had first seen it.

It is but the small feather brooch which Clover had given him during his first few months in Anima. Qrow has looped a thin silver chain through the hook and worn it, the metal so battered and weary that it looks far older than it must have truly been; how many times have godly fingers run over it? How many times has Qrow held it, clutched it close to his heart?

His flustered, rambling, torn thoughts are ripped away from him in an instant as thin fingers reach out, touching him; he shivers, then allows himself to melt into the touch, allowing those fingers to run across his skin, settling underneath his jaw, lifting his chin slightly. “You’re here,” Qrow whispers, absolutely awestruck.

Clover almost weeps by how _normal_ he sounds; no longer does his voice echo in Clover’s ears like the winds of the deities above, nor does he sound as haunting as the whisper on the breeze. He sounds like a _man._

“I wanted to see you,” Clover says quietly, not daring to move as Qrow’s fingers continue to explore his skin. “The Brothers agreed to let me come back here.”

Qrow’s face twists almost painfully. “But… but _why_?” he breathes, voice hitching.

Before he knows it, Clover has reached out, finally allowing his fingers to brush Qrow’s hair up and out of his eyes, revealing a face that is simultaneously too young and too old to be so uncertain. Clover loves this face, he realizes; he worships it like he has never worshiped anything before.

He always has.

His fingers trail down Qrow’s cheeks, catching on his beard, running further down his throat, his collarbones, until they rest upon the feather pendant- over his heart. “Because gods deserve worship,” he replies simply.

Qrow shakes his head, lip wobbling, brows furrowing together as he desperately tries to piece this all together. “Clover, you- if you’re here, that means you-“

“Accepted immortality, I think.”

“But why? Why would you do this to yourself?!”

“Someone needs to watch over the children. The Great Brothers told me that they shall live, but that does not mean they shall not need love.”

Qrow almost sobs. “I would’ve done that anyways.”

“I know.” Clover’s smile remains true.

Qrow understands. The tears which well up in crimson, vulnerable eyes are proof enough of that. Taking in a long, slow, haggard breath, Qrow finally whispers, “So you’re a god now, too.” He does not sound like he believes it.

Clover laughs, long and low. “I guess I am,” he smiles. “I don’t know what of, though.”

A crooked smile that is far too imperfect to be godly reflects back at him, devotion and awe engrained in every single muscle, every single bone. For a long time, they simply stand like that in silence- taking in one another’s forms, now that they are truly together- truly _equal._

“You once said that I,” Qrow begins in a whisper, “that- that I am a god of many, many things.” His expression softens, chin lifting up, eyes raising to the pure white skies which stretch out above them in every direction. Then, as if from memory, he continues, “Of plants and flowers blooming where they are planted, resilient and strong despite circumstance- of winds that can harm, but can also ease pain- of life carrying on, despite poor luck.” His voice cracks. “You were the first to thank me for keeping these forests Grimm-free. You kept me sane when I thought I had lost everything- when I had given up on ever being seen in the world ever again. I…” His mouth presses into a grim line. “I almost let the Grimm destroy me, some nights, before you came. I just- alone, immortality isn’t anything.”

He has never heard his heart audibly shatter before, but there is a first for everything. “Qrow… but… the children still pray to you, and after them, many will find their way here,” Clover insists gently. “I am of no consequence.”

“But you were the first.” With a wry, yet wondrous smile, crimson eyes crease, reflecting the light even through tears which finally spill forth over puffy lids. “And for that, I know what god you are.”

Clover straightens up, curious and baffled. “Really? What am I, then?”

Carefully, Qrow steps closer, grabbing onto the hands which lay pressed against his breast. “Bad luck can only last for so long. Good luck needs to follow, needs to guide the bad, needs to remind it to remain in turn- needs to welcome it, come time.”

“Balance,” Clover breathes.

Suddenly, Qrow does something which Clover could never expect: he kneels, placing one hand over his heart. He bows his head in reverence- in _worship-_ then murmurs, "You named me, you know. You are what has kept me anchored here through all this time, even though others pray here." Then, Qrow stands and takes in a deep, shuddering breath, but there is no lie in his eyes as he finally, truly smiles, the sight enough to melt Clover’s knees, almost dropping him to the floor. He does not need to worry, though- Qrow’s arms catch him as he speaks, the older god pressing his forehead against Clover’s, the connection between soft, feathery black and grey hair against his own dun brown strands and freckled forehead so warm and gentle and perfect that he wants this moment to last forever.

…it can, he realizes dimly. It can.

“I am the god of misfortune,” Qrow says at last, his voice next to Clover’s ear the perfect lullaby, “and you, Clover, are the god of Qrow.”

X

_Worship is not something that requires many hands, many tools, many offerings. Nora and Ren’s children know this well, as do their grandchildren. They do not build the shrine further- they do not enhance it, even as demand for the Reaper deity’s services grow as more Grimm become prevalent in the years following the war. They simply restore the shrine to its original state, then carve out one final image onto stone next to the bouquet of flowers littering the flat stone outcropping upon which the shrine is built, for there is only one thing that is missing. There is not much space to add more- too much has already been added over the years of love by the god who inhabits it, always waiting for a partner to join him at last._

_They do not ask why clovers always grow in the field, but at night, their soft, pliant leaves dance in the winds which caress the trees, and the voices of the two deities of fortune echo in the clearing. No one prays there at night. They know that the gods require some respite to just sit with one another and love, as the sun sinks over the horizon and the world rests its weary bones once again._

_A four-leaf clover for good luck is the final drawing which appears. Nora likes that, always smiling and laughing when her grandchildren ask her why the gods do not come out to play like in her stories._

_“They’re old and in love,” she says happily, gripping a little tighter onto Ren’s gnarled hand. After all, a crow and a kingfisher trill and coo and cluck in the canopy. At the sound, the old, gentle couple can only smile in response. “It’s a wonderful thing. Everyone’s finally together again. Everyone’s finally home.”_

_And that is all that matters._

**_-fin-_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we're done! This ending is definitely a nod to the 'god of Arepo' story; while this story was not originally inspired by that, partway through I started seeing some unconscious similarities so this ending was my tribute to that wholesome little tale. Cheers for reading, and let me know what you think!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://faultyparagonfiction.tumblr.com) for new fics/art/podfics, or message me on Discord (fp#8010) if you'd like to chat or are interested in joining a teeny general fandom server! 
> 
> I've also started a podcast recently which you can find [here!](https://anchor.fm/faulty-paragon/episodes/The-Good-Beans-Episode-1---Kingdom-Hearts-2-Eternal-Summer-Vacation-enjorh)
> 
> Here are my [other FG works!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898392) I've now got over 540k of FG content alone, so take a look!
> 
>  _Other RWBY series:_  
>  If you want to see more of Qrow in canon, check out my [Qrow Branwen-Centric Fic series!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448095)
> 
> Here are [AUs both set in canon and out](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1690948) for RWBY. 
> 
> If you want to stay completely within RWBY's canon, here is [another series of completely canon-compliant fics for you.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1815229)
> 
> If you're looking for a long series in canon and like Team JNPR, here's a series that's a [rewrite of Vol. 1-6 through Pyrrha and Nora's eyes!](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1448071)
> 
> Cheers for reading, y'all! Let me know what you thought of this fic, and I'll see you around!

**Author's Note:**

> Leave a comment and let me know what you think!


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